


Dread Wolf and the Champion

by youworeblue



Series: Bloodied and Broken [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But also, F/M, Lots of Angst, Slow Burn, Solavellan Hell, Warrior Lavellan - Freeform, a few chapters of smut, for your collected reading, it's solavellan hell what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 99
Words: 162,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youworeblue/pseuds/youworeblue
Summary: The collected Solavellan moments fromDead Pasts and Dread Futuresbecause sometimes you just need to hurt yourself, right?
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas, Warrior Lavellan - Relationship
Series: Bloodied and Broken [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969189
Comments: 12
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 4 Excerpt

“You are Dalish, yet there has been no clan seen in the area,” Solas remarked as they caught their breaths after a battle. Ixchel shoved her hands into the remains of a demon and fished out what parts she could carry, thinking of elixirs she would need and tonics she could whip up… “Did they send you here by yourself?”

“How did—”

She stopped, staring numbly down at her hands, covered as they were with ichor. She had not worn vallaslin when she had arrived at the Conclave as a girl. She had been too young, too new to the clan, to have earned them. She had not even earned them from the Lavellan Keeper; Keeper Hawen had given them to her so many years afterward.

When she first met him, she had tried to prove in every way possible that she was an ally, that she was more elf than human, that she was more Dalish than Chantry, and she had proved it to the moons and back. But it was when she sought out Hawen and told him the truth about Inquisitor Ameridan that the Keeper had clasped her on the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her brow and named her Lore-Finder, Secret-Keeper, Finder-of-Kin. And he had offered her the vallaslin of Dirthamen.

Solas had pulled her aside as she prepared herself spiritually to take the honor, and he had told her of the true meaning behind their markings. It had been their first all-out fight: she had grabbed him by the coat and sat him down and shouted in his face, and he had gripped her by the shoulders and shook her, called her ungrateful—

Ixchel swallowed. “Yes,” she said. “I’m alone.” She looked up at him bitterly. “Have you met many clans on your travels?”

“I have traveled many roads indeed,” he replied, “and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

“We are both of the same people, Solas.”

He gave that sardonic smile. “The Dalish I met felt…differently on the subject.”

“Then you must have come to them with the airs of an Outsider,” she said curtly. “We see whatever face you present to us. We are trusting, in that way.” She gave him a tight smile. “But—” and she spoke before Varric could comment “—we can discuss it over some wine after the world has remembered that it’s not supposed to fall apart.”

She wiped her hands in the snow and marched on after Cassandra, who had hardly waited for them.


	2. Chapter 4 Excerpt

-:-:-:-:-

She was nearly paralyzed when she heard Corypheus’s voice again after so many years. Her wide eyes met Solas’s as he spoke to Cassandra in the wake of the ancient magister’s comment, and she tried to quell the panic that rose in her throat when she realized she still could not see through his mask, still could not see the lies, the knowledge, that he hid from them all.

_Futile. Futile._

He reached for her in concern when he saw her terrified stare, but she flinched and drew away—and nearly jumped right in to a spire of red lyrium.

“Don’t touch that, kid!” Varric gasped. “It’s red lyrium. It’s just _evil.”_

Ixchel couldn’t do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She could hear the lyrium calling to her like it never had before, and she could hear Corypheus mocking her, and she could hear Solas—

Ixchel turned, and she ran head-first off the precipice toward the Rift.

“Ready?” she shouted shrilly over her shoulder. Leliana’s scouts, Cullen’s soldiers, Cassandra—they all gave the signal, and without waiting for Solas to cast a barrier or for Varric to get in place, Ixchel tore open the rift and let the Pride demon through.

She had branded so many runes into the lining of her armor, worked with Dagna to apply masterwork riveting and plates to the cuirass, spent so much care picking the materials, the dyes, of her armor, that she barely felt the Pride demon’s whip when it came down on her back. She did, certainly, feel it when the Pride demon caught her in the ribs with its swinging arms and threw her back fifty feet into a wall.

She landed on the ground beside Solas, rolling like a ragdoll until he managed to catch her and stop her fall.

“Are you alright?” he asked with more desperation in his voice than she had heard in—

Ixchel pushed herself onto her hands and knees and spat blood onto the blackened ground. Her sword was missing, somewhere in the rubble. “Dread Wolf take—” she spat again, pushed him aside, and ran back toward the Rift with the Anchor outstretched.

The Pride demon fell with someone’s sword sticking out of its forehead, and Ixchel felt the Anchor finally take hold of the Veil, and she summoned all her strength, all her anger, to piece the world back together again, because how _dare_ it fall apart after all she had done—


	3. Chapter 4 Excerpt

Ixchel squared her shoulders as Cassandra left her at the door, and she marched off to the corner in which she knew Solas always sequestered himself. “ _Arani_ ,” she said politely. He turned from where he had been considering the Breach, hand still on his chin. She did not smile at him. “I’m surprised you’re still here. You don’t have a divine mark granting you protection from the shems.”

Solas chuckled. “I’m not certain even the rumor of divinity would protect either of us, with the way they are speaking about you, _Herald_.”

She stopped dead in her tracks at the double-meaning behind his words, and she tilted her head at the Trickster God who stood before her. She had caught on to him eventually—at least in some ways—but had he _always_ been so _obvious?_

“My name is Ixchel,” she said, trying not to smile too bitterly. “I did not introduce myself properly before, and I think we got off to a rocky start.” She inclined her head. “I haven’t found any wine, but I didn’t want to hold off on apologizing.”

“Truly there is no need,” Solas replied. “I can only imagine how hostile the world must have seemed after being woken to all of this.” He waved an elegant hand back toward the valley and the Breach above it.

“Yeah,” she said, and then she stopped, because their eyes had met—really locked—for the first time, and she had not been prepared for this. She didn’t have a story. She didn’t know what she wanted to say, reveal, ask. She knew he had once planned on running far away from the Inquisition to plot and grow his power, and she did not want to lose track of Fen’Harel so early on…and she did not want to lose Solas’s company. Again.

She looked away. “I _am_ sorry, though,” she said softly. “The Dalish have been kind to me in ways that others have not, and I owe them my life. I’m sure you must have been made to feel unwelcome, in the past, and I should not dismiss that.”

Solas was quiet for a moment, and when she glanced at him, she found him considering her intently. He had dropped his arms to his sides. “You’re wise not to extrapolate your own experiences onto others,” he said slowly, “but I must also acknowledge that I have done that as well. Perhaps we are both right, and wrong, by degrees.”

She offered him a small smile. “If they give you any trouble here, Solas, let me know,” she said. “I will do whatever is necessary to protect you. They can throw me out like Shartan or burn me like Andraste. I don’t care.”

He gave her another long look, then dipped his head. “You said we are of the same people. I can sense how strongly you believe that.”

“I mean—” She bit her own tongue from how quickly she tried to shut herself up, and he raised his eyebrows at that. “I’m a far way from home, and you’re not a brainwashed Andrastian city elf like the rest of them here,” she said by way of explanation. She rolled her aching tongue around her mouth. “We’ll get out of this alive if we stick with each other.”

She couldn’t help the conviction behind her words.

“You are still afraid,” he observed.

“More than you can possibly imagine," she deadpanned.

He took a small step closer, and Ixchel tried not to flinch away.

“I don’t mean to make a habit of saving your life,” he said, and she heard the dry humor in his voice that she had missed _so much_ since he left, “but I would be glad to help in any way I can, if the need arises.”

“It might,” she said, and he raised an eyebrow. “They’re sending me deep into the Hinterlands to find some Chantry lady who maybe doesn’t think I’m entirely a savage or a heretic or responsible for the Breach. But there’s a whole war going on in-between.” She spread her hands out in entreaty.

His eyebrow rose higher. “It seems you are less nervous about wading into a war than remaining here. Is that right?”

She shrugged. “I think I prefer to have bears thrown at me, rather than worshippers,” she remarked, and she began to turn back toward the rest of the camp. “I don’t know when we’ll be ready to leave, but it seems you travel light.”

Ixchel heard the snow crunch as he turned away from her, and when she felt that he had looked away, she let the ghost of her courage leave her. Her shoulders sagged, and she leaned against the corner of the tavern and tried to ignore the whispers of her faithful all around.Ch


	4. Chapter 6 Excerpt

Ixchel took Solas alone with her to scout some ruins and promised Cassandra that they would return at the first sight of a rift. But Ixchel knew that, while there were more rifts to close, they had not yet opened, just as some of the larger deposits of red lyrium had not yet reached the surface.

She had pointed out the ruin a few days in to their journey across the valley, and Solas had looked at her curiously but did not say anything to suggest that he wanted to venture there. When she turned to him one morning as she laced up her boots and told him he was coming with her, get ready, he had raised a lone eyebrow at her and followed without raising questions.

When they were out of earshot, he looked out on the horizon with a smile on his face. “That tower is impressive even as a ruin. I wonder what dreams it might hold.”

Ixchel was struck by the smile and the enthusiasm that leaked into his tone. He had never been so open with his feelings, in the past—either in the weeks since the Conclave, or in the years they had known each other when she was much younger. She found that a smile tugged at her mouth despite herself, and she caught at her lips with her teeth to try and stifle it. The corner still escaped her, and Solas’s own small smile grew at the sight.

The sight rendered her unexpectedly breathless. It was a strange dichotomy, how everyone reacted to her as a grown woman and how they reacted to her when she was a child—and it was interesting that even Solas, as old and as immortal as he was, looked at her differently. Though he had been seemingly drawn to her (whether due to the Anchor in her hand, her pointed ears, or some other connection they might have had), he still had maintained a distance between them.

He simply knew so much more about the world than she did; he held such sorrow in him that she had not yet encountered herself; he had positioned himself as an adviser and tutor in many regards. He allowed her to pull only the smallest of smiles, the softest of laughs, from him on the rare occasion. His enthusiasm for history and artifacts of the People was expressed in his deep and thorough lessons—but how often had he simply allowed himself to be enthusiastic in front of her, to be excited at the prospect of _anything_?

Ixchel realized she had held his gaze for a moment too long.

“That’s why I brought the bedroll,” she said cheekily, but her heart was in her throat and butterflies had taken up residence in the space it left. “You can take a nap, I mean. I’m in it for the frescoes.”

“The graffiti? It is interesting.” His pale eyes glimmered. “If I learn of their artists, would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes, thank you. I may have a slightly obsessive interest in the symbolism of my ancestors’ art. I think—” and in her mind’s eye, she saw another rotunda, in another ancient place, where she had found an ancient staff hidden by the ghosts of a flame under a Dread Wolf’s gaze. She had found the Heart of Pride. But she had already held it, and they both knew it.

_Var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

“I think they’re trying to tell me things, but like Elvhen, only my heart understand and not my mind.”

Ixchel tried to flee the conversation by using the handle of her axe to push herself up onto the next rock and meditated upon the sight of the land below them. Though they had routed the larger groups of Templars and rebel Mages, the valley still bore scars of their battles. Yet even now she could see nature reclaiming the most ravaged sites: bears and august rams roamed across open spaces. In their footprints and in their feces, they would leave the seeds of new life. She would put money on it that by the time she returned here, the burns would be paved over with young green grass and flowers.

And Blighted lyrium, probably.

She struggled to keep her eyes on the horizon, when she really wanted to look down at her left hand and make sure it was real.

“You have seen a great deal of battle,” Solas said from below her.

“Why do you say that?” She twirled her axe in one hand.

“It is not just your skill. It is the way you navigate conflicts, even those that are not on the field of war.” His long fingers twisted around the roughly hewn staff they had scavenged for him in the emptied Mage hideout, then untwisted again. He was studying her, and had come to a more certain conclusion. “You have lived and breathed war. You understand it. It is home to you.”

Ixchel’s mouth went dry, and she tried to see beyond the flat panes of his eyes and into his thoughts. What ulterior motive did he have for finding this connection between them? Was he trying to ingratiate himself to her sad soul? Or was he fishing for information, working on a hunch about some secret he thought she held?

“I have known little else,” she said at last, coming away without the answers she sought.

“We have both seen terrible things, _ma falon_. We have watched death and destruction render that which we love unrecognizable.”

Those eyes glimmered, and maybe she did see something framed within them: a hint of the ancient grief he had shown her in the aftermath of Adamant, the first time she had called all of the shots and held sole responsibility for the Inquisition and Warden deaths she had not been able to spare. She had seen that same grief more plainly when he told her of the Evanuris, of his efforts to break the chains of his People, and the consequences of his choice to raise the Veil.

“It is calming to see something familiar in another.”

She looked back at her axe. They had found it on a fallen Templar—encased in a block of ice. The enchanted ice had ensured that the surface of the axehead had corroded what was likely once a mirrored surface, but she could not see past the pits and rust. She frowned at it anyway.

“I have a troubled relationship with mirrors, Solas,” she told him cryptically, and she jumped down from her rock back onto the path toward the ruined tower.

-:-:-:-:-

She was jealous of the ease with which Solas lay down and fell asleep. She sat cross-legged in front of the murals—stark reds, deep blacks, streaked with the elements—and tried not to lose herself in the symbols she knew and the symbols she did not.

Ixchel contemplated the depiction of her ancient ancestors on a long march, their numbers weighed down with rage and sorrow, haunted by a black weight and shrouded by a red sky. Was it the Long March? Was it a depiction of slavery? Was it a representation of the darkness and despair they discovered after the Veil rose?

She looked across at the sleeping elf who had been responsible, and she tried to find some solace in the fact that she knew he could not read her mind. She could think whatever she wanted in the dark privacy of her thoughts and he would never know. Her bloodlust, her desire for revenge and retribution, as well as her longing. She could reach out and slip her hand into his, or stretch out her body beside him, or slit his throat and then her own. She was acquainted enough now with magick, the Fade, the Anchor, and _him_ , that she knew he was not a particularly powerful mage right now. How easy would it be for her to overpower him? Perhaps he would not even wake.

But that was a mercy she would not allow.

Whether it would have been a mercy for him, or for her, she did not want to contemplate.

-:-:-:-:-

When he woke at last, she had prepared a small meal and kept a fire going; night had fallen, and it had proved to be a chill one.

She looked up at him with heavy bags under her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps you could tell me tomorrow,” she said, and yawned, as he approached.

“There is not much to tell,” he replied, and he folded himself down by the fire. “Go. I have monopolized your bed long enough.”

He had a mischievous glimmer in his eye that made her stomach turn in knots. She drew her thin canvas cloak around her and scurried to bed before he could see how her blush reached the tips of her ears.

She dreamed that she stood in the center of a valley, as riders on dark halla flecked with gold charged toward her. Wolves, likewise adorned with war paint, bounded along the flank of the Elvhen army, and on their mighty backs her ancestors sang a song of war and blood.

But she could not warn them of the dangers ahead, because they did not understand—and why would they listen to a quickling like her in the first place?

Ixchel stared down the six-eyed wolf that led the army, and she dared it to swallow her and the world that lay behind her.


	5. Chapter 7 and 8 Excerpts

“I must admit,” Solas said, “the vision of a Dalish woman astride a great hart as she gives a rallying call to her banner… It is not like anything I have seen in my long journeys in the Fade.”

She was pleased that she did not visibly startle when he snuck up on her, and her hands continued the deft motions of polishing the greataxe in her lap. Somehow, she had known that it would not take him long to seek her out after her return from weeks on the road. She tried to tell herself that she did not _want_ him to have missed her, but she was afraid of the truth. And here he was, having approached her with the lightest of steps and a lilting, teasing note in his voice.

“Really? They say the People used to ride the halla. Would that not be a sight?”

“Indeed, it was,” he said with feeling.

“Then why are you laying on the flattery, _harellan?”_

He gave her a laugh for that as he walked around the stone wall she sat on, and when he turned again to face her, hands clasped behind his back, he had a good-natured smirk tilting at the corner of his mouth. His eyes sparkled at their hidden understanding; he clearly enjoyed this step she had made in their subtle dance.

She was more pleased than she should have been to have made him laugh, but whatever delight it gave her was soured with a specter of grief. Her hands stilled in her ministrations upon her blade, and she stared down at the reflection of dragonling scars and Dirthamen’s slave brand. She wanted so badly to tell him that she knew these truths and embraced them. She had taken the vallaslin onto her once-bare face as an act of defiance, a reclamation, in full knowledge of their sordid past. And she wanted more than anything for him to respect her for that decision, though she knew he never would.

She _wanted_ to imagine herself as a former slave, leading a righteous war to freedom. She wanted him to see her as a leader of many—rather than an exception, an idol alone in the field, as he had made her out to be in his own way once upon a time down the road.

She shook her head at herself, sending her long hair to shroud her face as though that would hide her from his appraising eyes. “You know what else was a sight? The First Enchantress, Madame de Fer… I can’t imagine she will arrive with all her finery in tow, but she was like a butterfly…or a dragon.” She sighed. “Everything about her shone, smoothed like a river stone after the tumble of court life.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy, _ma falon?”_

“It’s hard not to feel every bit the Dalish savage in her presence,” Ixchel admitted. She raised her shoulders to her ears. “From what you’ve told me of the People, I would appear just as primitive to them, too.”

A soft breath escaped Solas, but she did not look up at him, and he did not move to catch her gaze. She raised her shoulders higher and then let them fall again.

“If only I had known sooner to avoid dragonlings, I might have saved my prospects at court,” she said with a self-deprecating grin, and she returned to polishing her axe. “Ah, well. _Tel garas solasan._ There is more to life than beauty.” She shrugged. “Beware the Iron Lady, _ma falon_. Her Empress slaughtered the elves of Halamshiral and buried the evidence in ash.”

Solas at last drew closer, and he perched on the stone ledge she had taken up as her post. With one long leg outstretched and one folded, knee pressed to his chest, he tipped a little closer to consider her. She could feel the warmth of his body on her shoulder and side, like the last rays of a summer sun.

“Yet again, it is clear that you enter these fraught encounters with open eyes,” he said. “You comport yourself with a remarkable shrewdness.”

“Not wisdom?” she cocked an eyebrow at him. “I was going for wisdom.”

“I would give you that, as well.” He acquiesced with a dip of his head. “Is this what you learned, from the Dalish?”

“Living in the world is what opened my eyes, Solas.” She tightened her grip on the staff of her axe and narrowed her eyes at her reflection as she caught herself echoing something she had said to him before, in Skyhold, in another life. Then, she forced her hands to relax, and she looked up at Solas with a thin smile. “I would like to wash the taste of Val Royeaux from my mouth for a moment,” she said with finality. “Did you have a productive time here in Haven, _ma falon?_ Have the shards yielded their secrets to you?”

She was genuinely curious, for they had never done more than collect them during his years in the Inquisition; when he had left, he had left their library of strange shards with her. But without him, she had never had the desire to continue his research into their origin or their purpose.

He shook his head. “No, but our apothecary has recently expressed more interest in the medicinal knowledge I hold.” Again, he smiled at her, and her stomach twisted around itself at the sight. “The people of Haven have taken to their savage Dalish-Andrastian Herald with great enthusiasm.”

“You think so?” Ixchel turned to face him more fully and set the butt of her axe on the ground. “Even after berating them?”

Solas made a face. “Perhaps even more so after you have berated them as you did. You shone a light on the dark corners of their hearts in which they might hide themselves. You showed them that you see their biases and see past them. Nothing—” his voice turned dry “—less than the light of the Maker could have shown you this.”

She gave him an exaggerated gag. “People,” she said, “have so little faith in _people_. They believe compassion and kindness and justice are godly qualities—and in doing so, they decide that they, as mortals, are incapable of such virtues. And certainly their fellows are incapable, as well.”

That seemed to set Solas off balance a little. His pale eyes traced the lines on her face, and she stiffened under his scrutiny—braced for whatever he might ask her. “You have made it clear you are not Andrastian,” he observed, “and you wear the marks of the most faithful of the Dalish. Is that pantheon not the embodiment of what you describe: desirable traits set apart as gods?”

The tension in her shoulders eased a little. “The Dalish know their Creators fell. They are less gods and idols than they are parables, which makes them tangible, obtainable, and inherently Dalish. Note that the Maker was no man, and Andraste was set aside from the humans as his Bride. But,” she added, “I am not Dalish. Neither do I believe in gods. I believe in people.”

“So you have said.”

“Are you listening now?”

His head tilted, and for a moment he looked so much like a curious canine she felt like she might drown in the emotions that surged in her. But she held his gaze, earnest and longing for him to understand even while knowing that it would be against his nature to accept her belief. Solas, whose name meant Pride, held himself above all others in the extent of his virtue and the depth of his sins; how could he ever have faith in other living beings and their capabilities?

He had had faith in _her_ , but that had not been enough.

“I didn’t take these marks to honor Dirthamen,” she said at last. “A Keeper _asked_ me to take them, as an honor for something I did for our People. And I _accepted_ his offer to honor that Keeper, and the Dalish, who have recognized me as one of their own.”

Solas’s gaze was so intent that she questioned whether perhaps he really did possess the ability to read her mind. He seemed to be trying to draw the larger story out of her with his eyes alone. She had piqued his curiosity, and she felt her chest swell with fluttering excitement. If there was something he could admire her for, this would be it—even though they had fought so bitterly over her decision to take the vallaslin after it.

“I uncovered something about our People that the Chantry and the humans have done their best to hide. I restored some of our pride, by bringing that secret to light. I gave the Dalish, and modern elves in Thedas, one more connection to our honored past. I gave us one more reason to be proud of the blood in our veins, even when the world would cut off our ears if they could.”

 _“Arani,”_ Solas said gravely, and she could not help her grin. She was teasing him as surely as though she had stripped to her smalls in front of him, and he was enjoying it despite the severe look on his face.

“You mustn’t tell,” she said in a low voice.

_“Ixchel.”_

“So many heresies are about to leave my lips!” she whispered conspiratorially. “Not here. Walk with me, _ma falon.”_

And she scampered to her feet, hooked her axe across her back, and led him out of Haven to the lake. She walked quickly ahead of him—trying to put some distance between them to give herself time to think.

Because she knew she was making a mistake.

She was a decade older than she had been the last time she fell out of the Breach and joined the Inquisition. She was a decade more experienced, and she held so many secrets within her now. But she was still young in the eyes of so many. She would find it difficult to explain how she had discovered certain things, supposedly as a teenager on her own. And to Solas, who was older than even she could imagine? Who had been old even when the Dales fell? It would be even harder for her to satisfy any doubts he had.

But Ameridan weighed so sorely on her mind. The Inquisition weighed on her. The true history of her people—and a history that even Solas did not know—weighed on her. It pressed against her insides and she needed to spit it out to seek relief.

Solas strode behind her and quickly caught up, and they walked together to the edge of the lake. Ixchel launched herself onto the ice and skidded on the soft soles of her shoes, and Solas followed. She noted, curious, that he did not mind the ice on his toes, and she wondered if it were magic or monotonous biology.

She slid playfully away from him and made her way out to the center of the lake. Only then did she turn to Solas, but she rounded upon him so fast that she nearly lost her balance. Solas caught her by the left arm, fingers curled tightly around her bicep, and then he caught her right hand in his own. Her head smacked into his chest and she felt even more off-balance, because—for a terrible moment—she knew she was about to slip into a waking nightmare. As his hand slid lower on her left arm, she recalled the pain of the Anchor. She recalled the pain in her _soul_ as his magic ate at her from the inside. She recalled the pain when he had taken her arm, when he had last held her like this, when he had kissed her for the first time—

Ixchel forced herself to look up at him, to reinforce the reality of the moment she was in. He was real and not remembered; she had never seen his pale cheeks dusted like this with a blush of exertion, or his eyes so alight with good cheer. His smile bright in his face and turned upon her and her alone.

She centered herself on the sensation of his warmth against her, his silken hands on hers, and his breath on her upturned face.

And then she forced herself to pull away from him. His hand tightened briefly on hers as she slipped out of his grasp, but then he let her go.

Ixchel took a deep breath. “In a hidden corner of the Frostback Basin, I found traces of a history that had been untouched since the early days of Orlais, and the last days of the Dales. The human emperor had started an Inquisition. At its head, he placed a Seeker. What was removed from history and has become heresy today is this truth: the Inquisitor was a _mage_. Not only that…he was an elf of the Dales.”

Solas’s eyebrows shot up, but she hurried to continue before he could comment.

“The Inquisitor was a son of Halamshiral, perhaps one of the last. He honored the Creators, and his lover was a Dreamer. But he also followed the Maker, and he was himself a companion to the emperor of Orlais. When a Blight struck the Anderfels and a _second_ dragon-god appeared in the Frostback Basin, the Inquisitor went to fight the dragon, and the emperor went to fight the Archdemon. The Inquisitor’s companions perished, and the Inquisitor went to face their enemy alone—and never returned. It was because of his sacrifice that Thedas did not become overwhelmed by a Blight and a god of war all at once.”

She ran a hand through her hair, then down her face, tracing the ink that marked her efforts to find her kin, to uncover their secrets, to hold their lore.

“This Inquisitor was a symbol of friendship between the elves and humans. He was a hero to all of Thedas. I, _half-blood_ as I am, carried his memory, and I brought it home to his people. And though I found this secret, I must keep it a secret, too,” she said, softening her voice, “because to live our history—to teach it—to be _proud_ to be an elf—is a sin punishable by death.”

Solas’s face, which for a moment had been so open to her, suddenly became inscrutable. His eyes followed the motion of her fingers as she traced Dirthamen’s crown, then fell to rest on her mouth, where she let her finger rest as though to hush herself. She recognized the object of his attention, though she could not guess at his intentions. It had always hurt to know how he wanted her, how he so knowingly considered acting upon it, and how he held himself back.

She dropped her gaze from his face and focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest before her.

And then she saw him stir, and he reached for the hand that held the Anchor. With his long, deft fingers, he traced the ragged edges of it around her palm. “How can a woman, so privileged to uncover such a secret, be marked and lifted up—without believing in the gods? How can she not believe it to be fate?”

“A woman,” she replied softly, “needs hope to survive. What have the gods ever done to give us hope? What freedom can there be in fate?”

She curled her hand around his so slowly, so carefully, that he had every chance to pull away. But he did not.

“Such a delicate thing to trust to mortal hands,” he murmured. “Hope.”

Ixchel closed her eyes, with his mortal hand held in hers.

_Var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

“I know,” she said.

-:-:-:-:-

They held hands as they picked their way back across the ice in the direction of Haven. Ixchel knew, as the banks approached, that once they crossed that boundary in the landscape, Solas would reconsider this boundary in their relationship. She could not say how she knew it, but she did, and she knew that he was right.

So she allowed herself to enjoy the warmth of his palm against hers, and the whisper of his sweater against her shoulder, and the way her hair clung to him with static electricity. She had the urge to tuck herself against his side, her head against his chest. She was such a comfortable size, and he for her.

She did not follow the urge.

When they reached the edge of the lake, Solas did slip out of her grasp. “Ixchel,” he said, and there was a deep note of regret and hesitation in his voice.

“Just… _Ma melava halani, Solas,”_ she said. _“Tel’abelas.”_ But she offered him a small, tired smile of understanding.

That only seemed to trouble him more, and his eyes remained upon her even after she excused herself for the night.


	6. Chapter 8 Excerpt

She changed into the armor she had worn when she fell out of the Fade: deep blue silk brocades, luxurious white leather, and striking gold dragon bone had made this her favored statement piece. Ixchel never felt more feminine, nor more powerful, than when she wore this armor she had crafted in the Undercroft. But it was heavy, and she did not wear it often.

She had not worn it at all since she had stabilized the Breach. Partly, she had not wanted anyone to ask her how she had come by it; in the fraught chaos of that long day, no one had paid much attention to how a random Dalish woman would come to have such strange and finely crafted armor. It was not Dalish in the least. But no one had thought to ask, and she had not given them the opportunity to remember that they should.

Now, she struggled into the armor not because it was physically challenging or particularly complicated, but because it reminded her of too many terrible things.

It was likely they had been about to bury her in it, for one.

“Might I assist?”

Ixchel closed her eyes as Solas picked up the white cuirass from where she had set it out against a log. _“Ma serannas,”_ she sighed.

He slipped behind her and passed the cuirass under her arms, to her front, and then around again, and he began to buckle it snugly along the back. “This is a master work,” he murmured. “There is magic in its seams.”

“I have been very fortunate,” she said. “I befriended a powerful arcanist, and a great blacksmith.”

“I do not think our Iron Lady has such fine craftsmen at her service.”

She went still as his knuckles pressed in to the small of her back and he tucked the last buckle safely underneath a cover. She hardly dared to breathe as he picked up her pauldrons and hooked them behind her shoulder blades. The leather whispered as they hung loose, and then he came around to her front to adjust them. He kept his eyes schooled firmly on his work as he threaded belts into place and snapped them tight. Then his fingers strayed lower, to the chains that connected the pauldrons, and he made sure they were anchored to the—mostly ornamental—gorget where it rested on her chest.

Ixhel wouldn’t have been surprised if he could feel her heart racing even through the many layers that separated his fingers from her skin.

She looked up at him, breathless and wide-eyed at his flirtation, and she felt her ear twitch despite herself; the tip of it got caught in her loose hair.

Solas’s face was a mask painted with only the faintest trace of amusement. He finished his work, then reached up to brush her hair back behind her ears; then his lithe, lily-white fingers traced the edge of her ear as it twitched again, and he followed the line of it back to her cheek.

Her cheek which was on _fire_ beneath the light golden lines of Dirthamen’s brand.

“Very fortunate,” he echoed, and then he left her swaying in her armor.


	7. Chapter 9 Excerpt

She found Solas, and she did not allow herself to look at Dorian, or at Varric, when she said, “I need a moment.” She kept her eyes on Solas, languishing in his cell, and she struggled to keep her voice even. Neither Dorian nor Varric questioned her; Dorian bowed graciously and closed the door behind him.

“A _private_ moment,” she said through the door, and she heard their sloshing footsteps back away.

Solas stared at her openly, and she could not tear her eyes away from his. They should have been blue. _They should have been blue._ She had seen the raw power in them swirl like pure lyrium—blue, blue, blue. Instead, he reeked of the Blight, and in his eyes she saw the six-eyed shadow that haunted her dreams.

“I saw you die,” Solas croaked. “There was nothing left but ash.”

In a voice that was so much lighter than she felt, she said, “Time magic. We find Alexius and get his amulet, Dorian and I will pop back out of a rift just a moment after we disappeared, and none of this will come to pass. You’re just the unlucky iteration that had to live for a year in the meantime.”

He pressed his head against the bars of his cell. “Unlucky,” he repeated disbelievingly. “You know _nothing_ of this world—”

“Oh, I _know_ , Solas.” She still stood in the doorway. Her feet were incapable of moving toward him to let him out of his prison. She was barely able to breathe in the thick, lyrium-clouded air. “Corypheus, demon army, enslaved Mages, Red Templars, an assassinated Empress.” She kicked at the water on the ground. “And you, powerless to stop any of it at all.” She kicked at the water again, more forcefully. The things that had cracked inside here were struggling to contain the swell of emotions in her, and she knew she was about to burst.

“Solas, I—”

She knew she needed to stay calm, to question him, to _implore_ him, but she was so angry and _tired_. She slammed the side of her fist into the wall and hung her head near it.

“I _don’t_ understand why would you want to send me back? Your plan for the world is just as bad as this! Is it jealousy I detect, _lethallin?”_ She curled her lip and glared at the wall. “Jealous that all of this is not by your hand?"

Solas had remained silent as he took in her distress, and she hated him for it. Ixchel recalled the words of the Nightmare, and she tossed them down at Solas’s feet now: _“Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_

Ixchel turned toward him and stalked forward, even as he stared at her with his red lyrium eyes.

“You knew this would happen,” Solas said raggedly. “But you still allowed it to pass.”

“I had to,” she barked.

“Why? To place the blame on me for not stopping the Elder One? You must know I could not—not as I was. Not as I am.”

She stopped in her tracks, fists clenched at her sides. The Anchor was flaring up her arm like fire, but she would not bend. She would not get on her knees for him again. She stood still and tried to breathe through the pain, teeth set against it.

Solas’s eyes still did not leave her face.

“I know this—” she gestured clumsily with her shoulder at the room “—is my fault, for letting a year slip by. It’s _real_ to me, Solas, the way I have allowed the world to suffer, even though I know I’m about to erase it. It still happened.” Ixchel’s head swam with pain and exhaustion and the overwhelming tempest of her emotions. “I just… I need someone to know. I need _you_ to know. The truth.”

At last the pulse of the Anchor released her, though it left her knees weak. She moved one foot after the other and approached him slowly, reaching for his hands where he held the bars of his cell. He did not move away from her, but neither did he speak. She wondered if the lyrium had turned him to stone already.

“We traveled together for years. You _gave_ me Skyhold. We found a fragment of Mythal’s spirit that lived on through the ages. My dearest friend, Solas, we uncovered so many wonders, and in the end I pieced it together—I realized who you were, Fen’Harel, and I loved you still.”

His hands were hot to the touch, and she could feel the sickly rhythm of the song in his skin.

“Yet for all that you professed to love me, for as much as you praised me for my heart and intelligence, even though you named me a champion for the Elvhen… You left me behind to walk your _dinan’shiral_. All I had was a broken heart and your shattered focus and your Anchor in my arm eating me alive.”

She pressed her forehead against the bars to hold herself up, because she wanted to collapse into the fetid waters at her feet and drown. Solas’s chest rose and fell in front of her eyes with short, shallow breaths, and still he did not speak.

“Years later, you drew me into the Vir Dirthara and your hidden temple because the Anchor was going to kill me. And as you _took my arm from me,_ you told me everything. The Evanuris, the slave rebellion, the Veil, the Tranquil world you awoke in…” She closed her eyes to block out the sight of his wolf jaw pendant, and his fluttering chest underneath. “But you would not tell me why I could not join you, _ma vhenan._ In the years that followed, you would not tell me why you would not kill me, _vhenan.”_

She did not know how her voice had become more steady, even as she unburdened herself to the man caged before her. She had imagined this confession as a rage, a howl, or a sob, but it hurt her more to speak so calmly. And she deserved the hurt.

“I chased you across all of Thedas until I realized the truth. My truth, at least. I couldn’t stop you, even if I had wanted to. Even if _you_ wanted me to. So I stopped trying. I gave up.”

And admitting this was a relief she had not realized she needed. The tears came to her eyes, but her voice was clear and soft. She tightened her grip on his hands as her tenuous composure wavered.

“Deathroot. My own terms, _ma vhenan,_ when you were too cruel to release me yourself, and I was too weak to keep fighting against your pride.”

“Then... It should not be possible…” His voice was a hoarse whisper, ravaged by time and lyrium and grief. “You are no wisp…no echo of the Fade.”

“From what I can remember, the Veil had come down and the world was full of power and blood, and someone—” she spat it viciously “—took the opportunity to perform a ritual so fatal it tore a hole in reality itself. They woke me and sent me back to the Conclave to suffer the same fate, all over again. It’s not as though I figured anything out in the time I was _dead_ , so I don’t know what they expected.” Ixchel coughed to disguise a rough sob. “So why send me back again, Solas?” she repeated. “Why does everyone I love ask me to suffer this again and again?”

Solas extricated his hands from hers, and she cried out despite herself, but then his hands were lifting her face to his and he pressed his lips to her forehead through the bars.

“Because I believe in you,” he said. “But you knew that.”

Her shoulders bowed under the weight of his acknowledgment, and she blinked in a vain attempt to stem her tears.

“It is not in my nature—it is _impossible_ —for me to believe I could fail,” he said as he brushed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I cannot think of another way to undo my mistakes, and I do not believe there _is_ another way. But if anyone were capable of proving me wrong…it might be you.”

He continued to stroke her face, and she blinked her vision clear for a moment to see him considering her with the same expression he had worn the day he had left her at the eluvian overlooking his refuge. There was heartbreak there, she recognized, and a curiosity she did not understand. It felt like a dagger in her breast, and she had to look down to make sure he had not in fact stabbed her in an act of mercy.

No. Even now, he was cruel in that way.

 _“Ir abelas, vhenan,”_ he said at last. “I have destroyed so many things in my pride. _Ir abelas, vhenan._ I could not spare you.”

She felt every inch the lost da’len she had been when he had left her in the wake of Corypheus’s defeat. She felt stupid and helpless and hopeless worst of all. She did not want to fight.

But still she could not stop. If not for his sake, then for the countless others who would suffer if she gave up now… But they would suffer again, at his hands… Her heart groaned as her brain fell into the same sick patterns it had so often followed, in those days near the end…

“Kill me,” he said in a voice more ragged than she had ever heard from him. “It is the only other way.”

They both knew she would not be able to kill him, now or ever.

_Futile. Futile._

Ixchel could not bear to raise her gaze to his face for fear of his tears. She had never seen them before, and she could not bear to see them now. The guilt might break her—or, worse, the sight might inspire hope that she could not afford to plant in her poisoned heart.

She slipped her arms through the bars and embraced him, her dear friend, her teacher, her guiding star, her love. She listened to the sickly stutter of his heart in his mortal breast and she let her tears soak into his shirt as she mourned the death of too many to count, and many more to come.

He carded his hands through her hair, ran them down her back, and made the same circuit again, and again, as he whispered ancient apologies into her skin. They stood there for too long, but she could not tear herself away.

It was Solas who had the strength to pull back, because of course he did, and she did not, and that was how it would always be.


	8. Chapter 10 Excerpt

Varric and Leliana limped over to join him by the door. But Solas remained; his face was cracked with lyrium and grief, and his lips moved, shaping words he could not seem to speak. He slowly shook his head and began to turn—and then he stopped, and he turned back to close the distance between him and Ixchel.

She met him with open arms, and he buried his face in her hair. He breathed deep of her; his wolf jaw pendant pressed into her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him. “I wasted so much time. I should have asked better questions.”

“I do not know that anything I could tell you would make a difference.” He sighed, and he leaned away so that he could pull her hair over her shoulder, to lay it across her breast. He untangled it, smoothed it back from her face, as though committing every sensation to memory. “I wish…” He seemed to lose himself to her eyes, and he drew closer again, forehead pressed to hers. “I had only just begun to recognize your indomitable spirit. If what you say about me is true, Ixchel, then you must know I had faith in you. In your strength. Your will. Your courage. You _must not_ turn yourself against your purpose. You _must not_ allow Despair to corrupt you.”

“Faith?” she asked hollowly. “Faith, or hope?”

He pressed his answer to her lips, where it lingered even after he had turned and joined Bull, Varric, and Leliana at the door.

 _“Telanadas,”_ he said, and the door closed behind him.


	9. Chapter 10 and 11 Excerpts

“The Lord Seeker has a…request…for the Herald before she meets him.” Barris cleared his throat as they approached three large banners in the central courtyard. “These are the Standards. It is an honored rite to raise them. The Lord Seeker asks that you perform the Rite so he may see the order in which you honor them; they are centered on the People, the Maker, and the Order.”

“What if I fail the test?”

“There is no wrong answer,” Barris said with the barest hint of a smile. “The ritual simply shows watchers who you are and what you value.”

“Very well,” she replied. “If that is what the Lord Seeker asks of the Inquisition.”

“Not…the _Inquisition_ ,” Barris said, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. Rain began to fall, and an ominous thunderclap announced the arrival of a storm. “The Lord Seeker changed _everything_ to meet you. Not the Inquisition. _You._ By name, Lady Lavellan.” He paused. “He’s been fixated on you ever since we arrived.”

“The Lord Seeker asks us to shuffle flags around? Refuse!” Abernache whined.

“If it is my answer he seeks, then I shall give it to him,” Ixchel said. “I know myself.”

“The Standards is a rite undertaken by recruits. It’s normally followed by a long study of how the Order was used in the past. Normally, we don’t let outsiders see it at all,” Barris said. “

She assumed that the only standard that was not of the Templar Order or the Chantry—the lion—was meant to symbolize the people. She approached it without hesitation, and she began to raise it. And raise it. And raise it. When it reached the top of the wall, she turned to face the watching lords and ladies, her companions, and the Templars of the Order around her.

Her eyes fell first on Varric, who tried to disguise his chuckle as a sneeze. Then, she looked to Solas, who for once did not slouch in an effort to make himself seem unimportant and unthreatening; he stood tall, chest full of pride, and his eyes gleamed with a canny light of approval. The thin smile on his face was hard, almost savage.

-:-:-:-:-

She continued on.—until a door closed behind her. She found herself in a room turned upside down, burning, gravity overturned. A shattered eluvian before her.

A hand extended through it, clad in golden scales.

“Solas!” she called, reaching for him.

The Anchor flared again, but this time it was not at her own bidding.

Ixchel screamed as the pain ripped her apart. As the pain of living became the pain of dying and became the pain of living again. She reached for Solas’s hand but could not close the distance—

_“Wait!”_

Cole stepped between her and the hand, and he clutched her shoulders. “Envy is hurting you! Mirrors on mirrors on memories! A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help—you, not Envy! You’ve seen me before! We’re _inside_ you!”

She stopped reaching past him and held on to him instead. Cole helped her stand. “It’s easy to hear, harder to be a part of what you’re hearing. It’s harder for _you_ to be _apart_ from what you’re hearing. But I’m here, hearing, helping. I hope.”

“You’ll need to,” she groaned. The pain, phantom though it might of been, had not left her. “You’ll need to hope for the both of us, Cole.”

-:-:-:-:-

The stairs she had so brashly charged up crumbled behind her now with every step. Cole gasped again, and she turned to find the false Herald in his place, charging toward her. It pushed her back agianst the door, pushed her up against it. Its aura was so potent it choked her, like a lover’s sour perfume.

“Unfair! Unfair!” Envy cried. “How can you be whole? I _feel_ the cracks!” It powered up the Anchor—but it was a false mirror, for the Anchor was in its right hand. “We’ll start again! _More_ pain this time! The Elder One still comes!”

“You want pain?” Ixchel asked it. “Here is my pain!”

She drew her knee up to her chin and pushed the demon away from her. She advanced upon it, and a six-eyed wolf followed in her wake. The black shadow towered above her, and it contained more power than Envy, more power than Despair, more power than Nightmare—more power than the _world_ could contain.

And she leaped upon the false Herald just as she had intended to in the first place.


	10. Chapter 12 Excerpts

Her ears rang as she knelt in the mud. Rain ran like rivers down her face, and diluted blood dripped from her chin down to the grass between her knees. She sobbed bitterly.

“Is this the price?” she begged the earth. “Shall I turn the world against me, to save it? My world? My friends?”

She bowed her head until her hair dragged in the mud, and she screamed to tear the heavens open. She screamed to tear the earth open, to split it straight to the Abyss. She screamed to breach the fabric of reality and reach back to the one who had sent her here, to communicate to him what hell he had condemned her to.

In the wake of it, none of her companions spoke. No one moved. No one breathed.

“Fuck all of you!” she wailed. “Fuck all of you and your pride, your _beliefs!_ Why are none of you happy? I saved them, I saved _so_ _many_ of them! Who cares if they wear robes or plate armor?”

She slammed the Anchor into the ground, and a ripple of its power turned the water in the mud around her into steam. She hardly noticed.

“They’re _people!_ They’re children, they’re lost, they’re _stupid!_ And all of them could be _heroes_ if we gave them the chance! The Elder One controlled them by making them _not people_ , made them _ideas_ , made them _choices_ , made them into a _war_. And I’m the only one who ever sees! Damn you!”

She covered her face in her muddied, burning hands and wailed again.

 _“Ma banal las halamshir va vhen! Tel garas solasan! Dirthara-ma!_ Dirthara-ma!!”

Ixchel did not know who reached her first. Perhaps there was not just one of them. Before she realized what was happening, Varric, Cassandra, and Solas were kneeling in the mud around her, touching her, piecing her back together. Cassandra dug her fingers into the back of Ixchel’s armor and pulled her back so that she was kneeling, rather than prostrated in the mud. Varric smoothed back her hair and steadier her with his solid body. And Solas—Solas pulled her hands away from her face and looked at her with the most honest expression on his face she had ever seen.

She widened her eyes to take it in, but her eyes were full of rain and tears. She still felt it: his searing admiration, the ferocity with which he drank her in. He bolstered her with his gaze. It soothed her churning insides, while Varric’s arms held her tight until her jerking, spasming sobs eased into heavy breaths. Cassandra’s bare fingers—she had removed her gauntlets—ran through Ixchel’s hair and tenderly over her pointed ears, conveying a tenderness that healed as much as it hurt.

Ixchel hiccuped pathetically

The rain was cold, and her weakness made her hands shake in Solas’s. “I—I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I s-shouldn’t’ve…”

“Hush,” Cassandra said. “I do not know what you found in Redcliffe, but if it was anything like what we just witnessed… You do not owe us an apology. We can discuss it later, if you like.” She tied Ixchel’s wet hair into a loose bun. “Do not fear, Ixchel. The truths that guide you… It is painful to be reminded of what we sometimes choose to forget. But it is a good pain, like a stretched muscle.”

“You know, Seeker?” Varric murmured, “You’re a lot smarter than you look.”

Ixchel laughed weakly, and she released Solas’s hand so she could wipe her eyes. “I don’t know if I can walk.” Her voice was a froggy gargle in her throat.

“Then I shall carry you,” Cassandra said. Solas picked up her axe, and Varric took her heaviest pieces of armor, and Cassandra hoisted the Herald of Andraste onto her back to take her to camp.


	11. Chapter 13 Excerpt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke one morning to find her head pillowed in someone’s lap. Fingers threaded through her hair and ran down her neck, massaging the aches that had developed over several days on the road. She should, probably, have been more surprised or concerned at the unexpected familiarity, but she was only filled with a blank, fearless calm.

“I didn’t want to wake you, but you were waking,” Cole said.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she told him. She rolled back to look up into his face, cast in shadow by his hat against the breaking dawn. His hands explored her face curiously, and she blinked at him slowly, wondering what he felt in the scars that puckered her brow and the ink that lay beneath her skin.

“This is when you feel small, _da’len._ Too many nights cradled in a place that holds the sky but won’t hold you. Envy saw fire and thought braziers, but it was always the mornings that burned the most. Dreamed companions killed in the light of day. Meetings, but no partings. Just mornings. Mourning.”

She blinked more rapidly as her eyes burned. “Yes,” she said.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Cole said again, “but the morning doesn’t wait. You need to hurry.”

Ixchel sat up quickly and nearly hit Cole in the face, but he vanished and reappeared in the empty seat beside the cart driver. “Your hart knows,” he said, and then he vanished again.

It was only then that Ixchel realized that Solas was still in the cart with her, and he was awake.

She ran a hand through her hair as they considered each other. “I don’t know,” she said, answering a question he hadn’t quite asked. “But I think we need to get to Haven.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel planned to keep their nights short, and their days long, to cover the breadth of Ferelden in as short a timetable as she could. That meant little time spent chatting by the fire, and even less time for dreaming in deep sleep.

But that was where Solas found her, anyway: in her dreams.

She knew immediately that they were dreaming. There were no particular tells in the environment around her—their campsite from that very night, if her sleeping memory could be trusted—but she felt it nonetheless. Solas had done a very good job of dreaming up their campsite, all the way down to the exact stars and the sounds of crickets in the night.

He sat beside her on a log, and they stared into a campfire. Their sides touched, almost leaning into one another, and Ixchel thrilled at it despite herself. She had been caught off-guard, and her control over herself in the moment wasn’t the strongest.

Ixchel didn’t know if _he_ knew she was lucid in her dream, or if he had even planned on telling her that they were in the Fade, but she tilted her head a little to glance up at him and said, “I’d wondered how long it would be before we met here, Dreamer.”

If he were surprised, he did not show it. He simply dipped his chin and smiled faintly at her. “I try to respect what little privacy our traveling arrangements permit. I will admit, however, that I have attempted to reach your dreams before.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You have carved a domain for yourself in the Fade the way an experienced Dreamer might. The walls are thick and opaque; it is difficult to see through them, let alone break through to join you.”

Ixchel’s chest tightened as she swallowed a triumphant smile. “I’ve been working on that.”

“It is wise,” he said, “though I am surprised…”

“I’m not a mage. I think it’s this.” She held open her hand, and the Anchor glowed through her gauntlet. “I was just suspicious, when you all told me it was connected to the Breach and that the Breach was between our world and the Fade. We’ve seen how it behaves in our world—but it’s less clear how it behaves there.” She smiled at him. “I started trying to shape the Fade pretty early on. I think I’ve gotten better at it.”

“It is not only the mark,” he told her, and she narrowed her eyes in curious confusion. “You have fractured rules of man and nature—and you will shatter even more before you are done. ”

Ixchel’s throat tightened as his pale eyes seared her with their belief. He could not possibly know what he was truly saying to her, how tightly she clung to his words and how deeply she placed them in the safest, most secure corner of her heart. Few other things dwelt there: _Indomitable spirit. You showed me that I was wrong. I will treasure the chance to be wrong again._

“But you’re curious about other things,” she said, once she had regained the ability to speak.

“Indeed.”

He gave her a long, probing look, and then he turned back to face the fire. As the dancing flames cast him in soft shadows and deeper darkness, she tried very hard not to think of him in black, with a wolf pelt held in his arms, and a soft layer of hair growing back in. She did not imagine him with scars obtained at a fortress that she had not yet besieged. She did not imagine the man whose faith in her, even after such losses at Adamant, had never wavered.

His appearance remained as it had been, and his stare remained focused on the campfire.

“Your travel through the temporal rift at Redcliffe clearly frightened you,” he said, “and then you were taken in to the Envy demon’s domain of the Fade. I would expect either of those encounters to overwhelm anyone on their own, and yet you have survived both.”

Ixchel almost wished Cole was there, to read Solas’s thoughts aloud for her, but she was also very thankful for the private moment between her and her false hedge mage. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “Well. I’m not gonna pretend that they didn’t fuck me up.”

He waited patiently for her to speak, and she took the time to think. As she did, she began to remove her armor piece by piece. She undid belt buckles methodically; she unlaced tight ties and loosened straps, and she focused on the routine of it to ground her. She could have just thought of herself in her other clothes, but this centered her, helped her retain control of the dream around her even as she thought of such fraught trials she had faced in recent days.

As she set down the last plate, she realized that she wore only more armor underneath. She sighed.

“Do you want to know what happened, just for the facts, or…?”

“I would know what hurt you, Ixchel.”

She looked at him with sharp eyes as he called her by her name, rather than _ma falon_ or _da’len_ or _Herald_.

“Envy had a more difficult time accommodating me than I did manipulating it,” she admitted none too proudly. “Cole—that’s what the Compassion spirit calls himself—helped. But I had no real hope that Compassion could sway the Templars off their charted course. It was up to me, and I was afraid.” She twisted her fingers anxiously in the wake of her past anticipation. “I wound myself up, convinced myself that they would rather fall on my sword, take the red lyrium, than ally with me after I so _brazenly_ admitted to treating the Mages like free-willed people. I prepared myself for Cassandra to deliberately misunderstand me, for her faith in me to shatter, for her love for me to…to not be enough.”

She trailed off for a moment, her hands trembling. She did not look up at Solas. She walked a fine line, and she needed to talk herself off the edge. “I still choke myself with the fear of it. We’ve spoken of faith and hope before. I felt—I _feel_ —fragile after all that’s happened”

His eyes drifted from the fire, slowly, to consider her hands. “At every opportunity, you hold yourself to your word: you place your faith in people. I was foolish to think that what I saw in you was blind idealism.”

She smiled, pointed and bitter.

“You live in constant conflict, then. Every moment, every interaction, tests that faith.” His words escaped him slowly, carefully, as though he was afraid that speaking them would test her resolve.

 _"Ma ebal'en'shiral."_ Her voice in the Fade wrapped around the Elvhen language more elegantly than her clumsy waking lips would ever allow. The depth of the words was apparent, and the Fade enveloped them with it.

“There are easier paths,” he told her. His voice was soft, and it carried the weight of a grave.

“But they are so much darker, Solas,” she said, and those sorrows were heavy in her voice; he did not, could not, would never know how well she knew that darkness, but she wished he could understand. “I _have_ walked them.”

The ghosts of another life, another world, pressed tight against her ribs, where she carried them in her heart. She felt fit to burst with the remembered pains. Ixchel reached for his hand and clasped it in her own again, lacing her fingers together with his and anchoring him to her there as tightly as she could. She was still trembling, pulled taught like a bowstring.

“My path is not easy, but it is easier to walk it with others,” she pleaded.

Solas turned his head to respond, but he caught her eye. What he found there mirrored a grief in his own eyes, a pain that she knew but could not relieve.

Solas dipped closer, and he captured her lips with his own.

For one stunning moment, Ixchel was divorced from body, from place, from time. She was just a woman, a beating heart, burning for him. But it could not last. Ixchel, fool girl, could not help the sad sound that escaped her, wrenched free by the knowledge of his departure, his betrayal, his _dinan’shiral._

She regretted it immediately; he drew back that very moment, and his pale eyes were already clouded with doubt. Where her lips had been, an apology bloomed on his mouth instead.

She drew her hands up to trap his face before he could speak or move. Her hands cupped his cheek, his jaw, and she dragged him back down to press his forehead to hers. He nearly resisted, but when she did not immediately try to kiss him, or pull him to the ground, or otherwise force herself upon him, some of the tension in his back eased. Solas slipped his arms around her, and he held her as she held him.

Ixchel was surprised at that. She was surprised that he remained so close, their breaths mingling between them; she was surprised when he closed his eyes and sat there, forehead to forehead, and waited patiently for her; she was surprised at his warmth, his trust. She was almost surprised enough to forget her sorrow.

Almost.

“I don’t want you to think this is a mistake,” she told him. Ixchel watched every muscle in his face, but she still could not pull out the truth from behind his mask. “I don’t want you to think this a mere dalliance in the Fade. I want… Whatever you are to me, Solas, I want you to walk with me on this path.” She punctuated her words with the multitude of intentions she had behind them, but still it was not enough. Nothing would be enough except the truth. And the truth? He would never accept. “But I leave those decisions to you. I don’t want you under false pretenses. I don’t want you because expectations, or pity, or—”

His lashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes to search hers.

She knew his answers. She would _always_ know his answers.

She released him, and she released the dream.

-:-:-:-:-

They traveled with the same near-silent urgency that they had taken up when they set out; Ixchel did not have the strength or the space to think of Solas and her dream. She was ashamed to admit that she was relieved when he seemed to likewise prefer to ignore it.

But then, on the night before they were to reach Haven, Solas approached her in the snow.

 _“Lethallan,”_ he said warmly, in that lilting voice she found so soothing and so sad. “Since we do not know what awaits us at Haven, I wanted to…acknowledge, the wisdom in what you said to me. I will need time to consider what you’ve given me, but on the eave of the unknown…is perhaps not the ideal time.”

She nodded. _“Ma serannas._ I agree.”

For a moment, he remained standing before her. He held her gaze intently. “But I have not forgotten.”

He turned, and she felt the chill of the night more keenly in his absence.


	12. Chapter 15 Excerpt

Ixchel was decidedly joyful as she led her hart across the rough terrain outside Valamar. The sun was bright and warm, her boots were dry, her hair was clean, they'd dealt with the Darkspawn, and she was going to be facing the Fereldan Frostback soon.

“What tune is that, Sunshine?”

“Hm?” She hadn’t even realized that she was humming, though she had been swinging the hart’s reigns in time. She racked her brain for the words.

_“She would always like to say:_   
_‘Why change the past,_   
_when you can own this day?’_   
_Today she will fight_   
_to keep her way._   
_She’s a rogue and a thief,_   
_and she’ll tempt your fate!”_

Solas chuckled. “A merry account, to be sure, but not a Dalish hero, I think.”

 _She’d kill you for the suggestion,_ Ixchel thought. She shrugged. “Heard it in a tavern to the north,” she said.

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” Bull said with an appreciative roar.

Dorian sighed. “I must admit, your tavern jigs are much more lively than those at home. So much less _‘and then we killed all the heathens and put a Desire demon in our scorned lover.’”_ Ixchel gave him an alarmed look, and he spread his hands out. “See? Yours are much more entertaining for the non-socipathic.”

They picked their way across a river strewn with boulders; Ixchel crossed first, with her more agile hart, and watched as Dorian slipped and dunked himself in a particularly deep stretch. From how he emerged, spluttering and blue, it was also a particularly cold one.

Solas reached her side, and there was a flicker of amusement poorly hidden in his smile. She returned it with a wide grin.

_“Tel’harellen ma’ghi’lenas, lethallan.”_

She parsed the Elvhen slowly. “Who was the liar leading me astray?”

His smile became a little softer. _“Mar ebelas’ghi’lin.”_ He waited for any sense of understanding, and then he lowered his eyes briefly. “I mean only that a weight has lifted from your spirit. It is good to see.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped a little. “Probably won’t be for long.”

“Do you think of the tension between your Mages and your Templars, when you think of that inevitability?”

Ixchel shrugged. “Fear and power vacuums breed cruelty. All I can do is temper it. But, ah, no.” She shifted her weight to one side and lowered her gaze to the wolf jawbone on his chest. “Unless I can leave _Ixchel_ behind... The things I've seen...”

His ragged cloak rasped as he reached for her hand—the one that held the Anchor, and her hart’s reigns. She could feel the warmth and weight of his bare palm wrapped around her gauntlet, and it just made her feel heavier. “You are surrounded by those who would help carry such a burden,” he murmured. “Some more reverently than others. Or help you bury it, with the respect it may deserve.”

She reclaimed her hand from him and glared. He could not know that she had offered him the same, only for him to tell her that his burden was too heavy, too poisoned, that he would not allow her to carry it with him. He could not know that she knew of the ocean of his remembered sins. But he was smart enough to know that she had estimated his pride, had been listening to his allusions, that his offer was hypocritical.

“Could _you?”_ she asked him.

“It is easier said than done,” he agreed. “But it is easier to help, than it is to accept that aide.”

She was taken aback by the admission, though he made no promise to live by it.

“But you did ask me, _lethallan_ ,” he added gently.

Ixchel turned to press her face into her hart’s neck. “I asked you to walk with me, not carry me,” she replied. “I would have a companion I know, to trust, on that journey. I would know his enemies, his handicaps, his demons, and he would know mine. I trust you with my back, Solas. Maybe that is enough for you?”

He was quiet for a moment, and the space between them was filled with the soft sounds of the Hinterlands, and of their companions chattering and laughing as they splashed their way across the river. When Ixchel peeked out from her hart’s shoulder, she found Solas considering her solemnly. His hands were clasped behind his back. “You do not know what you ask,” he murmured.

“I do,” she insisted wearily, and then she turned to call out to their friends. “Come on! We’ve kept the mother waiting long enough!”

Bull threw his head back and roared, and she threw her head back and howled along with him.


	13. Chapter 16 Excerpt

A wave of pain sent her to her knees amid the bodies of the Red Templars. She clenched her teeth against the pain but couldn’t help the ragged scream that rose in her throat anyway. Clutching at her elbow with her opposite hand did nothing to stop the fire that radiated up her arm from the Anchor.

Deliriously, she knew she had to stop it before it reached her heart.

Bull was at her side, shouting at her, but she couldn’t hear him. All she could hear was the lyrium, the pulse in her arm, the crackle of the Anchor—

Solas pushed Bull away and grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, peeled her away from her arm so that he could get at the Anchor. He tore off her gauntlet, her glove, until his bare fingers caught the skin of her palm.

Ixchel sobbed bitterly and jerked, as though to reclaim her hand from his, but he tightened his grip and pulled the magic out of her, siphoned it back down from her shoulder, through her elbow, back down to her palm, where he drew it into himself.

She bowed her head despite herself, forehead pressed into his shoulder. The lyrium began to quiet as the Anchor stabilized, and she realized that she was shivering uncontrollably. Her hand gripped Solas’s like a vice, and he held hers just as tightly.

“Are you still in pain?” he asked urgently.

She nodded shakily. “But it’s getting better,” she rasped.

“Something caused the mark to destabilize. Dangerously.” He surprised her by wrapping his other arm around her back so that he could hold her more tightly. “Are you wounded? Was it pain? Was it fear?”

Ixchel realized she hurt _everywhere_. Her ribs, her back, her neck, shoulders, knees even. She did her best to steady herself, to take stock, and slowed her breaths until she could hold them without sobbing. No broken ribs, but bruised, badly. Her collarbone twinged with an ominous, sharp pain, that lanced down her shoulder and into her arm. She still did not speak to answer him, because as her adrenaline was leaving her, she was left reeling in the aftershocks of what had happened.

There was another question he could have asked. One that she could not an answer.

_Was it the lyrium?_

Ixchel shrugged in reply, then gasped as the motion irritated her neck and shoulder. She remained bowed in Solas’s arms, her brow and cheek pressed close in the crook of his neck. She was enveloped in the smell of him, connected to him by his magic, and fate, and—

Ixchel hissed through her teeth and forced herself to pull away from him, even though it hurt to move, even though it hurt to be apart.

She had a decision to make, and she wasn’t sure if this were the moment. She needed to think, but she hurt.

“Shoulder,” she grunted. She realized that Varric and Dorian and Bull were ringed around her, staring breathlessly as they waited for any explanation of what they had seen. She shivered again, an aftershock of pain.

“That…that was a lot,” she said. “Ah… Ow… Um… Can someone go free those people? See where they came from? They might need to go to the Crossroads, or might need to leave with the Inquisition if they’re from far away.” She whet her lips, and realized her mouth still tasted like copper. Dorian was pale, looking at her. “Ah,” she said raggedly. “Someone check the bodies, too. See if we can bring anything back to the researchers. Find orders. Something— _ow, Solas!”_

He had raised a hand to her collarbone and pushed something into place that _hurt_. But as he held it there, his magic seeped under her skin and reinforced whatever had been injured.

“Fractured,” he told her. “It’s stable for now, but you must have it seen. Can you stand?”

“I…” She swallowed. “I’ll sit here ‘til we’ve investigated.” She looked around at the others. “Please?”

They nodded and scurried off to strip the bodies and release the Red Templar’s prisoners. But Solas stayed kneeling with her. His hand had remained on her shoulder—and his other hand had never left the Anchor.

She sniffled a little, despite herself. Solas mumbled something under his breath that she didn’t catch. It sounded like, _“Fenedhis.”_

“It’s going to kill me,” she said softly. “Right, Solas?”

Solas’s pale gaze would not meet hers. The taught muscles in his jaw were the only sign of his feelings, but at the same time, he had raised his hand from her shoulder and threaded it through the hair at the back of her neck. His long, delicate fingers cradled her head, his thumb resting gently behind her ear to make her skin crawl. He stroked the hot skin there thoughtfully.

“It can try,” he replied.

When he met her eyes, she recognized that he had come to a decision. She knew that look, and she feared it, because the last time he had looked at her like that she hadn’t been able to change his mind.

-:-:-:-:-

Solas’s magic held her bones together on the ride back to the healers at the Crossroads. Her composure, on the other hand, was rapidly falling apart. Her mind raced the entire time.

Why had the Anchor discharged? Why was it becoming unstable? She felt certain that it wasn’t solely because of the red lyrium, for she had encountered so much of it last time and it had never sang to her. She had never felt the Anchor build power while it was in the Blighted stuff’s presence.

Ixchel thought of the corrupting, sickening sight of the red lyrium idol that Varric had once found, then lost, until it wound up in Solas’s hands. After all they had done to fight red lyrium’s influence on the world, after all they had seen of its awful corruption… When she had read Charter’s report, it had felt like another betrayal.

He had spared Charter’s life in the moment, as though he owed Ixchel anything, and that had hurt too. Because it threatened to give her something poisonous in its own right.  
Hope.

Even now, after Solas had intervened, she felt that she could harness the discharge again if she wanted to. The power _thrummed_ in her bones, begging to be used. That had, once, meant that it was unstable and would kill her sooner than later.

Would she be dead before the Breach was sealed? Would she be dead before Corypheus had been thwarted? Would Solas even be powerful enough to take the Anchor from her before it was too late…? And if she died with the Anchor still in her arm…

Would Solas have any hope of his own?


	14. Chapter 16 Excerpt

Ixchel turned to face Varric, and he gestured for her to follow him out past the edge of camp. Once they were out of earshot, he still kept his voice lowered. “You asked me a ton of shit about what happened in Kirkwall. I think it’s clear I’ve seen my fair share of the red lyrium. What it does to people.” He glanced at her warily. “I know the look of someone who’s hearing it talk to them.”

She grimaced. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s been doing that since I got the mark… But today was different.”

“Were you planning on telling us?

“Of course, Varric.” When he seemed dubious, she turned to face him fully. “I’m worried. I know you’re all worried. But I know you want to help.” She sighed. “I’ve never ingested lyrium, blue or red. I’d never _heard_ it, myself, until we saw all that red lyrium after the Conclave blew up. I thought it was a weird magic thing, but it wasn’t like it was getting in my head or anything.”

“Until today.”

“Even then…” She rubbed her elbow, where one day once, her arm had been severed. “It mostly just freaked me out. The mark responds to me, I think. Usually it’s just a light show…”

“Does Chuckles have any ideas?”

“I had not yet told Solas that I’m hearing red lyrium sing to me, no,” she said, and her voice was sour, because the mage in question had just stepped out of the shadows.

Solas kept his arms behind his back, jaw tight as he looked her over. “You must tell me everything, Ixchel,” he said. There was a pleading note that belied his stern demeanor. “I cannot help if I do not know.”

“Well, you heard me,” she said testily. “It’s mostly just done its light show before this. I think it’s just coincidence that the mark destabilized while we were around red lyrium. And by coincidence, I mean probably caused by the fact that I was scared out my _mind_ about being near red lyrium.” She realized that Solas was watching her rub her elbow with grave concern on his face, and she stopped. “Cole hears it, too.”

She braced herself, as though the spirit boy in question was about to show up—but the woods were as quiet and empty as they had been. She was a little disappointed, but she assumed that meant he was off in Haven, helping.

Varric seemed confused, but Solas tilted his head. “Cole is a spirit of Compassion, Varric, who aided Ixchel at Therinfal Redoubt against the Envy demon.”

“And I walked _physically_ out of the Fade,” she said, addressing Solas. “I was in the realm of the spirits.”

She had been _dead_ , too, but she did not voice that.

“Look, my friends, my dear friends. We’ve been trying to get the mark to power up so that it could seal the Breach. Maybe this is what that looks like. Maybe once the Breach is sealed, it’ll…vanish.” She ended on a weak note, because she knew it wasn’t true, and because it was clear that Solas and Varric both had concerns that outweighed however much they might or might not believe her. She wondered what Solas truly thought.

“If you’re gonna start making optimism a habit, I’ll have to rethink your nickname,” Varric said eventually. “Don’t want it to be too on-the-nose.”

She shrugged, then winced.

“Just… Tell me if anything changes, Ixchel,” Varric pleaded. “That red lyrium monster was the craziest thing I’ve seen in a while. Wouldn’t want to have it get one-upped by that thing in your hand.”

She embraced him, careful of her injured shoulder, and pressed her cheek to his. Stubble scratched her as he sighed in her ear and gave her a hug in return. “You’ve done a lot of good work, Sunshine,” he said. “Had me writing more in a month than I did about Hawke in a year… Or maybe I’m just better about taking notes these days.”

“Please come up with a beautiful, poetic title capable of capturing my heroic elvhenness,” she said. “Don’t let the Chantry cut off my ears.”

He patted her on her uninjured shoulder and gave her a small smirk, though it was defeated by the sad look in his eyes. “Cassandra and I won’t let that happen.”

“I’ll see you bright and early, Varric.”

He nodded, and with a parting glance to Solas, he left the two of them to talk in the dark.

Ixchel prodded her injured shoulder and pursed her lips as the black-and-blue flesh twinged in response. But she didn’t look at Solas, and she waited for him to speak.

“It is not _my_ hidden past that is interfering with the one hope we have of closing the Breach. _Lethallan_ , please. If it will alleviate some of the stress, or the fears, that have caused the mark to destabilize… If not me, then speak to Varric.”

A stillness fell over her, and she stared into the darkness between the trees, and she stared past the darkness. That strain in his voice— Was he afraid of losing her? Was he afraid of losing the Anchor? Was he appealing to her sense of pragmatism by framing it in terms of the mark because she had rejected him when he was showing care for her alone? She knew her Elvhen god, and she knew that all were possibly simultaneously true.

In the end, he had come to love her, to care for her world, and still he had burned it.


	15. Chapter 17 Excerpt

Solas approached her—she felt it more than heard or saw it in the dark woods. His bare feet were so quiet on the grass, and his clothes barely made a sound as he moved. But she felt his power drawing closer. He was still nowhere near as powerful as he had been when he faced Corypheus at her side. And even that had paled in comparison to the sheer divinity that had rolled off of him when he took her arm. But he was gaining power, slowly but surely, as time went on. She could feel it keenly.

Ixchel flexed her left hand to relieve the cramping feeling in his presence, but then long, thin fingers met her wrist, and she did not stop him as they slipped lower to touch her torn palm. He laced his fingers with hers slowly, almost hesitantly.

The heat of him at her back was excruciating in its sweetness. She longed to lean in to him, to tilt her head back and look up at him and tell him with her eyes to kiss her. It had been a long time since she’d been able to give herself over to love without mistaking it for pain.

Solas pressed closer, and his right hand came to rest gently on her waist.

She so enjoyed turning his words back on him, letting him come up against them like an impassable wall. “You do not know what you ask,” she told him softly.

He chuckled.

“Perhaps we do not need to know how far the shadows stretch behind us,” he said, “to support each other on the forward path.”

His breath against her ear made it twitch, caught in her long, tangled hair. The weight of his hand on her waist was solid, a pressure, that she could not ignore. His thumb slowly stroked across the back of her hand, and with every pass it almost made up for the constant ache the Anchor gave her.

“I—”

She held her breath as he leaned closer his chin appearing past her shoulder; his lips encroached dangerously close to her cheek.

“You have an indomitable spirit, Ixchel. Your faith is as a pole star in the night.”

He had stopped himself. She knew with inexplicable clarity that he had been on the verge of admitting something important.

Ixchel sighed.

“Stars die,” she said softly.

He hummed against Dirthamen’s vallaslin. “And the best navigators may steer off course.”

_Var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

Solas offered himself to her, his flawed pride, his vanity, his exceptionalism, and laid them at her feet. For now, he could walk at her side and strive to see the world as she did—to put his faith in others, the way she did, even though it might hurt. Even though it would be hard for him, her proud wolf.

More than he could possibly know, she understood. She understood all that he was holding back, all the reasons he might stray.

She knew he would.

 _“Es'an ehn shia ga te'laim,”_ he murmured.

Ixchel acquiesced, and she tilted her head to accept his kiss.

Solas’s lips were cool in the night, but her heart burned. She let her back ease into his chest, where she fit so well. Without releasing her left hand, he brought his hands together around her to hold her more closely, without heat, never trapping her. His kiss ebbed and returned and coaxed her slowly to lean her head back against his shoulder and give him a better angle; when his tongue tentatively brushed against her lips, she met him with her own.

He tasted like fresh water and cool air, and nothing at all like red lyrium, and nothing at all like the Fade, and nothing at all like divinity—

For now, Ixchel did not allow herself to think of Solas as she had known him, Fen’Harel. For now, Ixchel tried not to think of Haven, which would be buried again soon. For now, Ixchel released her convictions, ignored the vengeful spirit within her, and allowed herself a moment of respite in a man’s arms.

They stood like that for an age, entwined so that perhaps vines might have time to grow up around their limbs and hold them in place. The twin moons shivered above them through the rustling leaves, bathing their stolen glances in silver between soft kisses and sighs.

When he pulled away at last and pressed his lips to her temple, his breaths deep and warm against her skin, she knew that neither of them would allow themselves such a luxury for long.

She turned in his arms and laid her head against his chest, beside the wolf jaw that hung there to protect his heart, and she nearly prayed.

_“Ir abel—”_

_“Teldirthalelan,”_ she mumbled into his sweater. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”

He tightened his hold on her and kissed her forehead again. They stood together, knowing that it would be the last time.

For once, she pulled away first. He ran his fingers through her hair lingeringly, and his pale, eluvian eyes were dark with grief in the night.

“In another world,” she said wearily into the murk between them. _“On nydha, Solas. Mi’nas’sal’inan.”_

His fingers trailed down her jaw to her chin, and he passed his thumb over her bottom lip once more.

_“On nydha, Ixchel. Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel.”_

Ixchel turned quickly so he could not see her tears, and she returned to camp knowing that she would not sleep to give him the chance to hear her where she walked in the Fade.


	16. Chapter 19 Excerpt

“Ixchel, I don’t understand,” Cole said.

“I know,” she replied. “I don’t either.”

“You saved them, I see it, but you might lose them before you can save them again. You keep looking in their faces, seeing people who were home once, but home is gone, but we haven’t reached that place yet.”

He touched his forehead, then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Pulled, blood that is not blood, a tiny trace of time. Lips struggling to shape language your parents lived. Singing stones, whispering waters, the physical and the Fade—lines on your face from another life, secrets the world doesn’t remember, you can’t afford to forget but you wish… _Ane mala vasreëm_ — How could you…? How are you…? Like me, but—”

“Cole!”

She reached for him with both hands and pulled his palms away from his eyes so she could meet them. “Cole, it’s overwhelming you. I’m sorry. It’s overwhelming me, too. But I’ll be okay.”

“The weight of all on you,” Cole said, “all the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are _theirs_. It’s so _hard_. But today is not the day.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I wish I could help!” he cried. “I can’t stop things from happening, and forgetting doesn’t mean you stop doing things that hurt.”

“I know,” she said more firmly. “Cole, you can’t help me. Cullen will try. I will try. But I fucked up, and that mistake is just going to hurt me every day, and I don’t want it to hurt _you_. I told you, my head is a terrible place to be. It’s okay.”

Cole was a strange creature to hug, because even though he had a body she could touch, she could still feel him slipping out of her grasp like gas, and she could also feel him bumping up against that thing inside her that heard the lyrium and responded to the Avvar Sky Watcher’s touch. Her spirit, maybe. He was an even stranger creature to be hugged _by_ , because Cole the boy had clearly not had the chance to grow into his long limbs and lanky frame, and Cole the spirit had the unfortunate added difficulty of never having had _limbs_ before, either.

“Today is not the day,” he repeated. And he disappeared from her grasp.

Ixchel sighed and let her hands fall to her lap. She had just started to gather herself enough to go back to her hut when she heard a soft footstep behind her.

When she turned, Solas was walking away.


	17. Chapter 20 Excerpt

“Adan and Minaeve went to get the medicine stocks,” a voice called out. Chancellor Roderick ran to them, and he scooped Flissa’s unconscious body into his arms. He stumbled a little under the weight but had already turned back to bring her to the Chantry. “We have most everyone else!”

“Right,” Ixchel said. She ran in the direction of the apothecary’s hut and found Solas kneeling beside Adan. He had been pulling a cart laden with supplies toward the Chantry, but one of its wheels had been hacked to bits by a Templar, who himself had been blown to smithereens by Solas. Adan had been injured. Minaeve was unconscious on the ground. “Bring him to the Chantry, Solas,” she told him. “I’ll be right after you.”

She started pulling Minaeve up onto her shoulders when she heard the dragon again.

“Solas!”

He threw up a powerful barrier above their heads, and the Blighted breath of the dragon struck it like the barrage of an entire river being dumped above them. Ixchel saw Solas bow under the effort to hold up the barrier under its weight, and she reached for him with the Anchor. “Use it! I know you can!” she shouted as she grabbed his arm.

He did not look at her as he siphoned the excess power out of the Anchor, out of her arm, out of her hand. The barrier held strong, and the dragon continued its flight over Haven.

Ixchel did not waste time. She pulled Minaeve into the cart, and then, with all her strength, lifted the cart off of its broken axel and dragged it toward the Chantry.

-:-:-:-:-

The Chargers ran off, and Ixchel hurried toward the last trebuchet. Red Templars and Venatori mages were already climbing over the walls. “See?” Dorian cried. “Alone, this would be madness!”

“He is correct.”

Solas and Varric joined them, and she didn’t have time to protest before they were engaged with the band of enemies. She had to focus, had to load the trebuchet, had to wind it, crank it, aim it—

“Perhaps we could trigger the trebuchet from afar!” Dorian called as he swatted fireballs at a Shriek.

Ixchel’s jaw twinged with pain from how tightly she had clenched it, and she abandoned the trebuchet for a moment to stalk toward him. She grabbed a fistful of his cloak and dragged him out of the way of a blow, snarling:

“I _didn’t_ have a _choice_ getting into this mess, Dorian Pavus,” she snapped. “I _never_ had a choice. I have a choice of how I get _out_ of it. Don’t take that from me too!”

His eyes were wide. His lips parted in shock.

She threw him aside and swung her greatsword in an arc over her head and through a Venatori mage.

“The trebuchets!” Varric called, hearing the Chargers cheer.

“That’s your cue,” she replied. She shook blood off of her sword and approached the trebuchet again. “All of you. Go. The Archdemon will be on us soon.”

For a moment, none of them moved. She could see the Chargers in the distance as they ran back toward the Chantry.

Ixchel hardened her heart, hardened her face, and took a threatening step toward Solas, Varric, and Dorian.

_“Go!”_

Absolute agony streaked Varric’s face, and disbelief clouded Dorian’s—but they heeded her at last. Only Solas remained, and her shoulders bowed under the weight of all she knew was to come. An admission, a question, rose to her mouth, but she could not spit it out.

He did not close the distance between them. He simply stood, taking in the last sight of her.

“You have walked a lonely path,” he said, voice soft. “I am sorry it led you here.” He bowed his head. _“Dareth shiral…vhenan.”_

Ixchel watched him leave, and she stood in the silence left behind and stared up at the stars. She thought of what it might be like, to float among them, to dance between them from light to light. Perhaps she would be able to, after all this was through.


	18. Chapter 21 Excerpt

Ixchel still wept when Solas approached, laden with something steaming and hot. She could not stem the flow of her tears or her shivers when he sat beside her on the cot. They only flowed harder when Mother Giselle’s hands left her hair and the woman left the tent to give them some privacy.

Ixchel was barely able to hold the small bowl in front of her, and she certainly wasn’t able to lift it to her lips. And she couldn’t look at Solas.

“You said you walked a path of grief,” he said in a murmur. “We were speaking in the context of putting faith in other people, holding them to the highest standard, and trying to live up to that standard as well, without becoming bitter. Yet the lonely path that led you to the Elder One’s feet… _Harellen ma’ghi’lenas._ What guided you there disguised itself as honor. Even to me.”

“Could it not be both?” she demanded, desperate and bitter through her tears. Her head bowed lower, and her hair dropped into the broth he had brought her. Her tears dripped from her nose into the bowl. “Could it not be right, and also be selfish?”

He made a soft, sad sound, and the sob that wrenched from her was even more pained. She was so tired, and she was so tired of conversations where she could not directly address the six-eyed wolf that she knew hung over his shoulder, even though her words were meant for him.

He did not reach for her, or put his hand on her back, or touch her hair. His hands remained clasped in his lap as he seemed to wait for her to speak. He seemed content just to sit beside her as she made a wretched scene of herself.

But at last, she managed to catch her breath enough. She wiped her face on her shoulder. “It’s selfish to want to not be responsible anymore,” she said hoarsely. “But that’s just because I’m alive now to be held responsible. If I had died—I had just sealed the Breach. Whatever the Elder One has planned from now on, or if not him then the Sixth Blight, or if not that then some Qunari invasion, or if not that—who knows—someone else would rise up to face it. Or the Inquisition would. And I believe in that. I don’t think I’m the only one capable. I didn’t feel guilty in the moment. But now, I am someone who’s capable, and I’m here, and I’m alive, and I feel guilty for wishing that weren’t the case. But going to die was the right thing to do. And continuing now is the right thing to do. Can’t both be true?”

Solas made the same sound again, and she snorted in disgust as a reply. “The world is never going to stop falling apart, Solas,” she said, staring down into the bowl in her hands without seeing it. “Some of us have a chance to make it better, for longer, in the meantime, and because we have the chance, we have the responsibility. It’s not just about not making things _worse_.”

“And it is a heavy responsibility on your shoulders,” he agreed. “Never mind the fact that you do not have much shoulder to carry it on, in the first place.”

Ixchel was so shocked by his jab that she didn’t even think to laugh. She was so taken aback that the uncontrollable shivering that wracked her body stopped. The hitches in her breaths eased instantly.

Everything about her grief was thrown off in shock.

He gave her a thin, wan smile. “You should drink that before it gets cold, _lethallan_. It will help you sleep, and your body needs rest after all it has endured.”

She nodded slowly and raised the bowl to her lips without suspicion, without thinking of the things he might want to tell her in the privacy of the Fade. Instead, she lingered on that word: _endure_.

_Mala suledin nadas!_

Mythal had appeared to her. She was certain of it. Why? What had she yet done to earn Flemeth or Mythal’s attention? How could Flemeth or Mythal know of her yet in any way that would matter? Know to find her?

Ixchel finished drinking the broth before she even realized it, and she had raised the empty bowl almost to her lips again when Solas intercepted it. He took it from her with gentle fingers, and at last, he brushed his hand against hers. “The song Dalish sang,” he said softly. “It was very beautiful: _‘Elgara vallas, da’len. Melava somniar.’”_

Ixchel could already feel the potent tranquilizer putting weight in her eyelids. With no food in her stomach and her exhaustion already overwhelming her, she was no match for the potent anesthetic that swept her mind blank.

The last thing she remembered was her head falling on to Solas’s shoulder, and his gentle chuckle as he reached up to push her hair behind one ear.

-:-:-:-:-

The next moment, it seemed, she was in the Fade. She had a split second of sheer panic as she _recognized_ that she had not expected to be in the Fade, hadn’t centered herself, wasn’t ready to shape it, and she was afraid of revealing something she shouldn’t yet know—or something she didn’t want an intruder to see.

But then she realized that she was just standing in a field of golden grass so high it brushed her elbows, and the air was warm and the sky was as burnished gold as the grass below her that it was like being on the ocean at sunset.

Markham. One of the few places she had ever called home.

Solas was in the grass behind her, his face turned to the wind. He breathed deeply of it; there was fog rolling down the coast in the distance, and the air was sweet with the mingling of ocean and mountain air.

In the distance, they could hear voices singing, and in the dream there was no real melody—there was only the concept of singing voices, and she couldn’t tell if it was _Suledin_ or if it was _The Dawn Will Come_ or an ancient song summoned by his presence in her dream.

“The humans have not raised one of our people so high in ages beyond counting,” he noted. “Giselle’s faith is hard-won, _lethallan_ , worthy of pride…save one detail.”

“That faith might turn to worship?”

The words spilled from her, but she was conscious enough to stop from mentioning Evanuris or would-be gods or men whose people would have them be gods.

“Do you think me the person who would use such power to harm others, Solas?” she asked softly. She dragged her fingers across the sprouted grass, remembering the sounds of seeds rasping against one another in the wind.

“When they give me a title instead of a name, when they try to clip my ears so that they can justify their faith in me… Do you think I would lose myself to that role? Do you think me the kind of god who needs to prove herself to be a god?”

She gave him a dark look.

She had once disbanded the Inquisition, after all.

He met her gaze fearlessly.

“It is within _anyone’s_ character to do so, given the power,” he said. “It requires vigilance and humility to refrain. That is what may be lacking in some…as you have told me.”

“If you simply wish to remind me, not accuse me, stop _scowling_.”

She waved a hand dismissively, then froze. Her arm was laced up to the bicep with the green power of the Anchor, and beneath it, she could see the black, atrophying skin of her consumed forearm.

Solas was on her in an instant, taking her hand, soothing her. But she did not hear him over the ringing in her ears. She could not afford to focus on him—she had to keep the dream centered in Markham, on anything except for Fen’Harel’s refuge, on anything except for eluvians, on anything except for golden Ancient Sentinel armor—

“This is Elvhen magic,” he said softly. “Ancient, and tied to the orb that the Elder One uses. They build up power over time, supposedly the power of the Elvhen gods. He must have unlocked it to open the Breach—and in doing so, caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.”

“How did he find it? Are there more? Do you think he found it recently or did he take it when Tevinter rose after the fall of Arlathan—” She stopped herself abruptly.

He smiled a little, and her heart skipped, knowing he liked it when she showed her ability to connect the dots and see the larger implications of the information he revealed to her. But he did not elaborate, and he dipped his head to look down at her arm. The glow had faded, but the blackened skin remained. “However the Elder One came to it, the orb is Elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith,” he said in a marginally more gentle voice. “With it, he killed the leader of the Chantry. We must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is of our People.”

“Think they’d burn me like Andraste? Or wait until I’m dead and throw me out like Shartan?” She rolled her eyes. “It won’t even be about the orb, lethallen. It’ll be a famine, or it’ll be a Blight, or it’ll be a _hangover_. Eventually they’ll find something to blame on Elves.”

“I suspect you are correct. But you cannot afford to lose their faith—and their aide—before you succeed in thwarting the Elder One. By attacking the Inquisition, the Elder One has changed it. Changed _you_. He has selected the arrow, and strung the bow, that will be his end. But that weapon, the Inquisition and their faith in you, needs room to grow.”

She watched him thread their fingers together, and the fields of Markham became a sloping field of snow.

“Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… Grow…”

He led her up to a ridge—a ridge she knew so well—a ridge that looked over the intimidating approach to Skyhold. She didn’t even need to walk, for the dream shifted around her as Solas moved. But she wished she could stop him, wished she had a moment longer to steel herself.

Because the sight of Skyhold made her heart burn. The Anchor in her arm flared again, but the pain was in her chest, but deeper than that. It was in her soul.

The painful sight of her beloved home only lasted a moment before the sky darkened, and a glow began to rise up from the citadel in front of her. Red lyrium shards and strange, glowing tendrils of Blighted fungus began to sprout from its walls. She gasped at the foreign sight, and she shrank behind Solas as the nightmarish glow reached even the sky.

He seemed alarmed, and he pulled her close to him as he looked up at the sky as well. A voice boomed across the sky like low, rolling thunder, and she recognized the Nightmare’s needling voice:

 _“Ahhh, there you are,_ da’len _… And such deep, dark fears you’ve saved for me…”_

“Solas,” she said urgently. “Wake—”

The snow around her feet became rushing water, and the solid ground dropped out from under her. Red lyrium glowed in the depths beneath her, and the torches of darkspawn hordes flickered above the surface of the water as she drowned in the Deep Roads.

Her lungs burned, and in the split second before her last breath escaped her, a hand grabbed her by the scuff of the neck and pulled her up out of the water, and it was an Emissary cackling in her face.

For a terrible moment that stretched into eternity, she stared into its horrible Blighted face and felt it eating her thoughts. As gatlok rang in her ears, it ran its putrid, diseased tongue across her cheek, and she screamed.

Memories vomited out of her, and they hurt as they left her as though they were shards of glass. The terrible despair of the cracked and broken library in the Fade, the intense dread of an endless fall into an abyss, the existential loss of a shattered orb and an empty space beside her, the eternal fear thereafter of another such loss—

The Emissary gagged and gargled, and two daggers sprouted between its ears.

Cole caught her in his arms before she could fall back into the depths of the Deep Roads. “You can’t let it hear you scream, or it will make you forget!” he said urgently.

She stuffed her fist in her mouth.

“Your body is keeping your mind asleep,” Cole said. “That doesn’t mean you need to be in the Nightmare!"

Ixchel buried her face in Cole’s chest and tried to focus on somewhere else, somewhere other than that terrible, cold water, that endless, untouched, death-filled space that was the deepest of the Deep Roads. All she could think of was another dark place, this one quiet and secure: her little library under Skyhold.

She and Cole were suddenly under the large oak desk, curled up around each other like children. Cole did not need to breathe, but the sound of it comforted her, so he breathed deeply beneath her ear as he held her.

“I can’t afford to forget,” she whispered to him. “I need to remember, so I can do them better.”

“Don’t give them to it, then.”

 _Right_. She was in the Fade, and if she was afraid enough of losing her memories to the Nightmare, she would _fear_ them right into its hands.

“Solas is looking for you, too. But I can’t let _him_ find us and _not_ the Nightmare.”

Ixchel winced and buried her face deeper in Cole’s bony chest. “That’s for the best.”

“He hurts, an old pain—”

“I know, Cole,” she whispered. “Please don’t. Not now. Please… I just want to sleep, and not be afraid, and not hurt.”

“I can do that,” he said in a mirrored whisper, and now that they were safe, now that they were quiet, she felt like she could close her eyes and let him shape the Fade for her instead.


	19. Chapter 21 Excerpt

In the meantime, Solas ducked into the tent and handed Ixchel a bag that he had been carrying.

“It is all the soldiers were able to scavenge before they left Haven,” he said.

Her fine armor was packed in the bag, as well as her small collection of trinkets that she had been given over her journeys from people she had helped: small figurines, pieces of jewelry made of painted wooden beads and twine, rocks that had been painted by children.

She held it all close to her chest and sighed.

“We should speak to the others,” Cassandra said, “but I think I agree with your plan. It is all we have.” She stood. “I will gather them. You should not waste your strength now. You will be needing it.”

Solas sat in the chair Cassandra had just vacated and watched the Seeker go. “Does the Anchor bother you in the waking world?” he asked.

Ixchel stuck her hand out from under her mountain of furs and showed him the glimmering tear in her palm. “Enough to be aware of it,” she said, “but not a _pain_ , no. It was becoming unstable in Haven, around all those Red Templars. And when I thought… When I thought the Elder One was going to kill me, I detonated it. Willingly.”

He looked up at her sharply, then reached for her hand. “But it seems stable now.”

“When I woke up—well, I’ll have to tell the others this all over again in a second, but—I woke up and there were many demons around me, and I tore open a rift that sucked them all in again.” She offered him a shrug. “I could probably do it again now. I won’t, though. I’m aware I’m trying to _stop_ rifts in the Veil.”

“More than that, I do not think it wise to _count_ on the Anchor remaining stable after such uses of its power. I do not know how it has stabilized again, if what you say is true.”

She tilted her head to consider him and his point, and the only thing she could offer—not that she would voice it—was Mythal’s appearance to her in the snow.

“Solas,” she said, starting in a different vein, “what happened in the dream… Cole said it was a Nightmare. It’s been trying to reach me for a long time. The Elder One sent it. So a Nightmare and Envy, set upon me by the Elder One. Why would they serve him?”

Solas frowned thoughtfully. “If he is indeed connected to red lyrium, or to the Blight—if that was indeed an Archdemon—then his actions will sow great fear across Thedas,” he said. “An enterprising spirit might see that as a way of gaining sustenance. But it is troubling that it would seek you out in this way. I could not find its domain, or you, after you disappeared, _lethallan_. I was afraid that I had trapped you in the Fade to suffer it, unable to wake up...”

“Cole helped me break out and hide,” she said.

Solas’s brow eased. “That is comforting to know."

She looked down at their joined hands and sighed. “As in all things, I have stupid luck,” she said.


	20. Chapter 22 Excerpt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -:-:-:-:-

The first day that she led the way forward, Solas accompanied her closely. She was embarrassed by how exhausted she was, how heavy her limbs felt, as she retrod paths that one day soon would be well-traveled. It would have been so much easier on her hart, but it had seemingly decided that its job was to pull sleds full of the injured. When Cullen had tried to unharness it so that Ixchel could ride, it had bit the Commander and that was that.

Solas had given her his staff to use as a walking stick, but she was still winded, and she was terribly annoyed at him. Firstly, he walked maddeningly just a step behind her so that she could appear, to anyone watching, that she were the one leading him. She understood the need for appearances, and image, but she didn't believe that this particular instance was an impactful one—and her neck ached from trying to look back at him all the time when they spoke.

For, secondly, he was prying into her past as they walked, and she needed to see his face so that she could tell when he was becoming suspicious. At some point her lies of omission were going to be outright lies. She needed to be able to gauge how her words landed, as she spoke them, to keep up a solid series of alibis and falsifications.

He had started out by asking her where the golden, coastal field had been in the dream they shared, before the Nightmare broke through. She had told him of Markham, where the weather had been fair enough for her to sleep out in the open and there had been enough farms with consistent bounty that her small thefts went unnoticed. But she had always felt drawn away, because there were so few pieces of her People there. She ran into Clan Lavellan often enough in the area, during their own migratory patterns—but she had always felt the outsider. Yet when a long winter ruined a harvest and Ixchel was certain she was going to starve, Clan Lavellan came looking for her. They knew she was no hunter, so they took her in for that winter but had been allowed to stay even after the thaw.

"I have not crossed paths with Clan Lavellan. Did they teach you your particular dialect?"

She snorted. She knew that he was trying to tease out how she knew so much ancient Elvhen, as rough as it was, but she also knew he was trying to politely assess how sophisticated Clan Lavellan _actually_ was, to take stock of their worth as inheritors of Elvhenan.

"You mean, _'Do they fumble with the elegant language of our ancestors as shamefully as you do,_ da'len?'" A glance at him informed her that he at least has the decency to blush. "No, I'm just particularly clumsy. What ancient Elvhen I know, I learned elsewhere on my travels. I know I mix them up, I know I must be unintelligible sometimes, but—

Solas cut her off gently. _"Ar dirthan'as ir elgara, ma'sula e'var vhenan.”_

"That was beautiful," she said, "but too fast, Solas."

She heard the quiet sound of his smile spread across his face, and she stopped herself from looking at him. It would hurt to have him look sympathetically, or pityingly, upon her. It would hurt more for him to look at her with affection.

“It is a poetic way of saying… When one speaks Elvhen, one speaks their spirit. Put another way, their intent. I would hope that your heart would recognize the rhythm of the song, even if you did not understand the words.”

Ixchel couldn’t help the soft smile he brought out of her. “Yeah. It does.”

“It is a sentiment that goes both ways.”

She paused to breathe deeply of the cold mountain air. She felt chagrined that the cold was getting to her so easily when Solas walked with his bare feet in the snow. She was fairly certain there was magic involved, but it still only served to reinforce his Elvhen mystique. She was jealous in more ways than one.

"I do not think you are shameful, _lethallan,"_ he said, and she did not need to look at him to know the earnest and sad look in his eye whenever he said something that really meant: _ar lath ma._ She wondered when exactly he had come to such a realization. When she told him why she had taken the vallaslin of Dirthamen in an attempt to convince him that she cared deeply about the history of her People? Or Therinfal, when he realized how seriously and solemnly she placed her faith in the inherent worth of _people_ in general?

Why—again, she wondered, bitterly twisting the knife in her own chest—had he realized such a thing and allowed himself to coax her, kiss her? Why had he ever?

She had tread this circular path many times before in her darker moments. The nicest answer she could think of was that he had the same problem she and Dorian did, according to Cole: _You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are._

The other answer was that he had planned on wrapping her into his endeavors, until he decided that…she was too weak? Would oppose him? Would hold him back? Somehow or another, she was not _worth_ the inclusion.

She wasn’t sure what she could do to overcome that.

"Well, I think it’s shameful. From my language to my ears to the dragonling scars, I do my People a disservice."

"Elvhenan was an empire of superficialities and excess, that is true, but it was also one of great principle," Solas told her. "Court intrigue was not _all_ founded on duplicity and seasonal fashion."

"I'm not certain of what you mean. Certainly you’re not saying that it is my _heart_ that makes me Elvhen, Solas?" She laughed. "What is my heart if not shem and Dalish? The two peoples you have the _least_ respect for on Thedas. I think you've said nicer things about Qunari."

He was quiet for a moment. She continued walking. Solas’s staff sank deep into the snow, and she realized she was hauling herself up a steeper incline than she’d first anticipated. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath again. Solas put a hand out to steady her.

“You understand as well as I, how frustrating—no, how exhausting—it is to watch people care little about improving their lives, or each others’ lives,” he said.

She did not look up at him.

“Before joining the Inquisition, I had joined my share of causes. But when I offered lessons learned in the Fade, I was derided by my enemies, and sometimes my allies: _liar, fool, madman_. There are endless ways to say someone isn’t worth listening to. Over time, it grinds away at you. I suppose I am just tired of fighting for those who do not want to be fought for.”

“You offer lessons learned in the Fade, I offer truths they hide away in their hearts. I agree. But if you stop fighting, why were you fighting in the first place?” she pressed.

“You do not win a war by fighting to the death in every battle. Pick the fights you can win, remember your goals, and do nothing that does not further them.” He paused for a split second, then added, “Ah, but now we know how little you value your life in the first place. Perhaps that explains something.”

Ixchel whipped around so fast that she nearly threw herself down the incline again. She was just fast enough to catch the broken look on his face before it was replaced by the schooled _hahren_ mask he liked to hide behind. Her face twisted in anger she could not conceal. “What if the _goal_ _itself_ is the fight you cannot win?” she posed to him. “What are _your_ goals, Solas? Are they so much better than mine? Recruit me, then, _rajelan_. Give me a fight that won’t exhaust me with its hopelessness.”

He held her stare for a tense moment. “Yours is a worthy path. I have said that before.” Then, as though he knew he could not deceive her but he did not want to see the impact of his deception, his eyes slid away, first to the fraying collar of her quilted jacket, then off to the side to look down at the journey that had yet to take toward Skyhold. She followed his gaze to the horizon and chewed her lip in frustration. He did not trust her, and her antagonism—born of a love that had already been tortured and warped into something dark and sick—was not helping.

If she wanted things to be different, if she wanted to stop him from abandoning her to pursue his _din’an’shiral,_ if _anything_ was going to be different this time, then she needed him to trust her.

The easier option would be to throw herself off this cliff now and hopefully rob him of the Anchor’s power. But that was not certain to thwart his plans in their entirety—and more than that, she chided herself, it was not her _only_ option.

She needed to remember that, no matter how much it hurt to be kind to him. No matter how easily she knew she could hurt him. No matter how much she wanted to.

She glared bitterly at the wolf jawbone on his chest.

He exhaled slowly, and the jawbone shifted.

_“Ma ghilan, lethallan.”_

Despite the regret, and the warmth, she heard in his voice, _Ixchel_ did not trust _him_. She wasn’t certain if that, in particular, was going to be necessary. Yet she had the sinking suspicion that it would.

Ixchel ran a hand across her face and swallowed a frustrated scream. _“Ar souveran,”_ she said. _“Ar ame ir abelas.”_


	21. Chapter 23 Excerpt

Charter accompanied Ixchel and Solas on the day Skyhold was to come into view. Ixchel knew they were close; she could have made this part of the journey blindfolded and hogtied. As such, she had been preparing for this sight all morning. She had been counting down the steps to it since they reached the base of this slope. But still, she had not been prepared for how the sight would hit her.

Ixchel had not seen the citadel outside of the Fade since she had been flung back into the world at the Breach. Everything since then had, to some extent, felt strictly as an obligation: a series of steps to take as part of her duty as an experienced Herald. Haven was a stopover on that journey, for she had had years to accept that it had been buried and lost, and that it would be again. Every time she closed her eyes to rest, it was to get enough strength back to perform her duty as Herald again in the morning, and again, and again.

She had not realized how much she looked forward to Skyhold as a homecoming, until she stood at the top of the ridge and looked across the ravine at its mighty facade. The turquoise blue river, frozen solid far below in the valley, gleamed in the afternoon light, and Skyhold’s towers cast long, sharp shadows across the valley as the sun trespassed behind it on its rise. It beckoned to her with its dark holdings, bid her return, and fill it, and make it home once more.

“Messere Solas!” Charter gasped. “What is this place?”

Ixchel tore her gaze away from her ruined home to find Solas’s eyes on her and her alone. He was assessing her reaction more coolly than she expected, but his face softened when he saw the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Skyhold,” he said warmly. “Originally a place of great importance in Elvhenan known as _Tarasyl’an Te’las,_ it has been remade in the image of Ferelden kings and occupied by a diverse series of forces—even dwarves have taken residence here. But now, it awaits a new force: the Inquisition.”

Ixchel pressed her knuckles to her mouth to keep herself from making a sound as she looked back at Skyhold.

_You have never had a home before. You do not deserve to be alone._

_So, I gave you Skyhold._

She covered her face with her hands. She thought of how she would walk up to it on the main mountain path and approach its gates, and no one would be there to greet her. There would be no congratulatory calls from guards on the ramparts. There would be no bells. There would be only wind, just as there had been in her final days after Skyhold had been defanged and laid abandoned.

And since then, few had come to stay long in the fortress. Ferelden and Orlesian lords had insisted no force larger than thirty men occupy it at a time, and fewer than even those were willing to leave their lives behind just to maintain hers. So her found family had dwindled—first in the aftermath of the Exalted Council, and then in the following months, until she was nearly the last resident, for years after.

It was worse, after the Regret demon. She had commissioned a small crew of former Inquisition soldiers to retake the keep from it while she was on such an away journey, and in the aftermath, for one bloody, brilliant moment her home was full of love and laughter again—and then, once again, gone. Worse the second time.

She could never explain to Cassandra why she always returned there after her journeys out, pursuing leads on Fen’Harel’s movements. She had standing offers of welcome from the Empress and from King Alistair, from Tevinter, Nevarra, and a host of city states in the Free Marches, and just about every Dalish clan in between. But she had always returned to Skyhold, and every time she walked up to its dead walls, she hoped the sight would kill her in its own right. But it never had, and she’d taken matters into her own hands.

She had thought that by doing it there, she might stay forever. Instead, she had been sent on a long, long journey back.

And it was that moment—her homecoming—that she swore she would not take herself from it willingly again.


	22. Chapter 24 Excerpt

Her forces hardly filled the lower courtyard. When dispersed, it seemed still like a ghost town. She stood in the lower courtyard for some time, blocked from the stables by the collapsed bridge, not particularly wanting to visit the as-yet unnamed Herald’s Rest and knowing that there was too much rubble in the way of what would become her quarters. She didn’t know what to do with herself but wander, and she wasn’t inclined to wander when she knew where everything was already.

Solas approached her, and she turned to him, wondering what this place had looked like when it was his. Had it been similar to the Temple of Mythal? Or had it been more like the ruins she had wandered as she chased the Viddasala through eluvians after eluvians after eluvians? She remembered that lone wolf, staring with Veilfire eyes at the sight of a sundered Titan, and she wondered.

 _“Lethallan,”_ he said gently. “Would you become a statue in the courtyard?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “It doesn’t seem real, to be here,” she said in earnest. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

He gestured behind him. “You might explore.”

Ixchel raised her eyebrows. “And what about the ghosts?”

Solas stared at her, and she held his gaze for a beat, then laughed. “I’m kidding. But…There is something about this place. I feel like a trespasser…”

He gave her a laughing smile. “Here I thought you had sensed how thin the Veil is here. Ancient magic permeates the foundations, and the memory of powerful rituals draws spirits close.”

She shrugged. “Maybe that’s what I’m picking up.”

Solas turned and she followed obediently. She guessed that he liked her sense of discovery and awe, and he wanted to see it as she explored Skyhold. Indeed, upon their first arrival at Skyhold, he had followed _her_ as she wandered, and he had seemed so warmed at her delight and awe. In retrospect, it was even sweeter, and even more sad.

But now, she did not dare to lead him. She did not want to pretend. She was too tired.

"I know little of Ferelden ruins,” she said as he led her around the upper courtyard.

“They knew not what they built upon,” Solas replied, “but they knew that it was the host of a great power. The magic in this place has seeped into the stones that they laid, protecting it from darkness.”

“Yeah, but what ruler thought to destroy an ancient Elvhen site? For what purpose? And for what reason did they leave it abandoned?”

“Those who let it fall to ruin did not know what they possessed. Perhaps that was true even for the elves, as well.”

She cocked her head at his back and once again tried to understand if her conversation was with the Elvhen god or the hedge mage.

“I’ll make sure we do it justice, then,” she said.

“In your hands, I do not doubt it.”

They opened doors and poked their heads in to survey the damage and decay, murmured with soldiers and workers they encountered, and moved on. She leapt across ruined battlements behind his nimble feet, let the wind blow through her hair, and looked down upon the river valley and felt, perhaps, as Solas must all the time. To retread one’s steps in a world that wasn’t how she knew it was meant to be…

One day, caravans of her people would move slowly and silently along that path, ants among the snow. For now, the sun hung high and bright, and thanks to the magic of Skyhold’s walls, the bitter wind of the Frostbacks had died down to a gentle, though still chilling, breeze. The valley below Skyhold was still. She breathed in the stillness until it filled her, until it gave her the resolve she needed to speak.

 _“Tarasyl’an Te’las,”_ she murmured. “‘The place where the sky was held back.’ An auspice, again.”

Solas hummed unhelpfully. She continued to press.

“To have sealed the Breach and then come here, fighting one who would tear down the Fade and become a god…” She leaned against the ramparts and glanced him over from head to toe. “I’ve been trying to convince the others there are no higher powers guiding my path, but that’s not the case, is it, Solas? _You_ have been. _And_ the Elder One,” she allowed.

He gave her a startled look, and she turned her gaze back out at the horizon.

“Does that make you my gods? To have such power over my life, my decisions, my path?"

She could feel Solas harden behind her, and she tried to convince herself that she wasn’t trying to push his buttons to hurt him, wasn’t trying to take advantage of old wounds she knew still bled. She had a reason, and it was by necessity that she drew this pain to the surface.

“I trust you, Solas,” she told the wind firmly. A decision, a promise. “I have, and will continue to put my faith in you. But you don’t trust _me.”_

He had not moved, which was good—he had not fled. He did not speak, however, and waited for her to enlighten him unto her motives in this confrontation. She was happy to oblige.

“I know you by your actions. You have not led me astray, or into situations that might corrupt my purpose or contradict my principles. But I can’t deny that as long as your motivations and plans are hidden from me, you _are_ using me.”

She turned to place her back against the stone, and she held both her hands out to him in entreaty. Solas had left his staff hooked to his back, and now he stood as he always stood in her memory: shoulders squared, chin tipped proudly, hands laced behind his back as though he were physically restraining himself from speaking. Solas did not heed her beckoning, and his pale eyes were burnished like a locked eluvian. She had touched the nerve that signaled them all, the source from which so much of his hesitation, his unwillingness to embrace her, stemmed.

“If you’re as canny as I know you are, that imbalance bothers you. It weighs on you. That is why I know you will always pull away—from kissing me, or from being honest with me even as a friend. _That_ is why I am reluctant to open myself to you. I _am_ aware of the imbalance. But more than that, what is the point of offering myself, bare to the soul, if I know you’ll always turn away? I simply don’t understand why. _Am_ I too shem for you? Is it that I have found myself as an authority figure? Is it that you consider me too _simple_ to understand what makes you, you? You say, ‘lead me,’ but I think you have already made the decision not to follow.”

She twisted her face briefly, annoyed at the tears that rose unbidden, and for once she was able to successfully beat them back.

“Whatever the answer, I still trust you. I still want you at my side. And I thank you, sincerely, for bringing us home to Skyhold.” She bowed her head and set her mouth in a grim line to hold back all else she wanted to or could say. For in the silence that lasted, her mind continued to piece together frantic words into pleading cries she would never voice, desperate things to pull him back when he was already gone.

Solas’s voice was even and guarded when at last he spoke, and he asked only one question: “What is it that you want, Ixchel?”

“I want you to trust me,” she said again. “And I want you to stay. The other things… Well. It must be so rare for you to be posed questions you cannot answer, _hahren_. Those, you can keep.”

Ixchel pushed herself up from the wall, and she met his eye bravely. She saw nothing there, and she could not see under his polite mask. But she saw _him_ , even so, and she had tried to tell him as much.

“It has been…a long time since I could trust someone,” he said.

A crack in the mask.

 _Unbelievably_ , a crack in the mask.

“Take your time,” she told him gently. “It is not an ultimatum.”

She stepped past him and recklessly slid down the rubble of a ruined wall. She needed to find a quiet place to have a breakdown, and her ruined quarters waited for her to come home.


	23. Chapter 25 Excerpt

Solas was considering the Templar banner that happened to be moldering on her wall. She was about to say he was welcome to burn it, when Cole bounced forward.

“There are many spirits to meet, Solas,” he announced helpfully. “The Champion wants you to see her greet them.”

 _Fenedhis_ , she thought stiffly. “Yes, well, there is urgent business in Crestwood, I need a mage, and I would rather not butt heads with Vivienne or Dorian about the nature of demons.” She opened her arms respectfully. “And I think you might enjoy this trip.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. There was no hint anywhere on his face that he was uncomfortable with her presence, but she _felt_ it. “I have heard that the large rift in that area formed after the Breach was sealed. It would be wise to find ancient elvhen artifacts to stabilize the Veil, once this tear is sealed, if it truly is so weak.”

“That’s a yes, then?” she asked hesitantly.

Solas allowed her a twitch that resembled a smile.

“Would you be able to leave at sundown?”

-:-:-:-:-

“You’re the Inquisitor,” Hawke said.

Ixchel raised her head from where it had lolled against the tree trunk and she opened bleary eyes to pin him. “Whatcha gettin’ at?”

“You didn’t ask for the job, but you’ve taken on the responsibility. You’ve got thousands of lives riding on your decisions. You bear that weight all day.”

“I can guess you know how that feels, Champion,” she said.

Hawke was lying on his side, facing her across the fire, and she suspected he had been studying her—perhaps for hours—while she nodded off. He gave her the most solemn look, and she sat up a little. “Yeah,” he said. “You need a place where you can be safe knowing someone else is in charge for a bit.”

“Oh, shut it, Chuckles,” Varric groaned. “The only Tevinter she’s got wouldn’t, ah, indulge a woman that way.”

“Doesn’t have to be a Tevinter!” Hawke protested. “Fenris is also an elf, and a murderer, and a brooding piece of shit.”

Ixchel choked on her own breath and had to hunch over to catch it again. When she did, she began to cackle. “Don’t you dare,” she interrupted herself, pointing at Varric before he could make any remark about Solas, and then she looked at Hawke. “But if you’re saying you’d prescribe me some time with this Fenris… Hah! Gotcha.”

She tossed a handful of dirt playfully in his direction; his face had turned red as rashvine under his tattoos. She couldn’t help the glance she gave in Solas’s direction, but he was pointedly staring at Cole, who was whispering to him—and Cole was staring at her. She didn’t doubt for a second that Solas had _opinions_ about Hawke’s banter, despite his apparent distraction.

“He acts like he’s in charge, Champion, but it’s really you,” Cole called out.

“Fenris and I are consenting adults, and there’s nothing wrong with what we choose to do in bed,” Hawke replied. “Now, if an Archdemon would like to swoop down and swallow me, I’d be fine with that.”

“Isn’t this _literally_ what you were just recommending to me?” Ixchel tossed back.

“In not so many words!”

Hawke petulantly froze the ground underneath her rump so she jumped up yowling in shock, and Varric nearly fell off his seat laughing so hard, and across the fire, Ixchel saw Solas look pointedly away into the woods. But she also saw his shoulders twitching with concealed mirth.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel won the first game, to her delight, before Hawke had even lost his shirt—Varric had coquettishly removed his gloves in the one round he lost, and Solas had shrugged out of his sweater and left himself in the jacket he wore underneath. For the second game, she still did not lose nearly as terribly as Hawke. But when he began unlacing his boots and talking about a scar on his big toe, she threw down her cards.

"I can't take it anymore," she announced, and as she began unbuttoning her coat, all eyes at the table locked on her. She grinned wolfishly. “Which one?” she asked, nodding her head at Varric.

“Well, let’s guess first,” Hawke complained. “That arm—was it from getting the Anchor?”

“Nah, Bull says it’s a dragon,” Varric said.

“Yeah. Melted an entire sleeve of my armor to me,” she allowed proudly, and she shrugged out of her coat and began working on her shirt. “Jumped in front of…some people I cared about. Fell off a cliff after.” Ixchel was suddenly second-guessing her decision to allow this interrogation. It didn’t help that the very men she had jumped in front of, to protect from dragon fire, were seated right in front of her.

“How about this,” and Varric gestured emphatically at his chest. Her shirt had come unbuttoned and now hung off of her shoulders, leaving her bare except for her wrappings. Beneath her collarbones, circular discolorations in her skin spiraled and disappeared where her chest was bound.

“Arcane Horror. There was an abandoned Chateau in these woods…” She shivered dramatically. “Got pinned against a wall by some corpses and got a blast from the thing.”

“This one.” Hawke slapped his neck.

“Terror bite. _Lovely_ things. Thought it’d be septic.”

Solas raised an elegant hand, drawing their attention without saying a word, and he drew one finger slowly down the very center of his chest. His eyes did not move to the corresponding place on her body but rather held her gaze intently—and still, he was silent. She could feel her heart racing at that look, and she scowled at him, even as her ears burned with a blush.

“How did you—”

“He _did_ tend to you when the Seeker threw you in a cell with us,” Varric reminded her. "You were half-dead and we had to figure out why."

She ran a hand across her face and groaned. She knew that there was a hair-thin scar in the exact line Solas had drawn. It had been gifted to her so generously by a Sentinel Shadow outside of the Temple of Mythal, after she had already been downed by a Red Templar Behemoth. It had been a dirty tactic, but fortunately the ancient elvhen blade had been mostly stopped by her armor. The wound was still deep, but it had not reached her heart.

“Three-way fight, I got pummeled by both,” she explained. “Threw me on my back, and then the other one tried to carve out my heart.”

“It was a very fine blade, to have left so thin a scar,” Solas said.

Ixchel nodded once but did not explain further. She shrugged out of her shirt and discarded it in the pile with Hawke’s clothes, and she downed the rest of her drink. “Alright, alright. I’ve proved my point.”

“We’re two tough bastards,” Hawke said cheerfully.

Varric sighed as he dealt the next round out. “Please don’t tempt fate.”

Ixchel looked back in Solas’s direction and found his eyes had wandered from her face—just for an instant.

Her blush likely reached her _toes_.


	24. Chapter 26 Excerpt

with Solas’s rift magic, Hawke’s forceful power, Varric’s cover fire and Cole’s whirling daggers, Ixchel was able to back the big man into a corner and overwhelm him. She took his helm off his head and awkwardly carried it out onto the ramparts. A commotion had stirred beneath her, and guards shouted when they saw her—but when she held up the helm a silence fell over them once more.

“I am the Inquisitor,” she called out across the fort. “I shall ask once: _leave_.”

Ixchel gave a nearby owl statue a smug smirk as the bandits began to scurry, picking up whatever they could carry before they ran. “Varric, would you write to Harding—”

“On it.”

“This is a mighty keep,” Solas said from behind her. “I’m certain it would be a boon to Lady Nightingale to have such a safe haven for her agents on the King’s Road.”

Ixchel nodded and turned to him, shoulders slumped a little. “Yes, but it is Ferelden, and Alistair has had a hard enough time keeping his lords in check. I don’t want to claim it as our own without _asking_.”

Solas’s brow creased slightly. “Ferelden has failed the villagers of Crestwood. They deserve better.”

“Oh, and they will get it, from us. I’m certain Alistair would _prefer_ that we hold Caer Bronach. But I’m going to get permission first,” she said firmly. “Varric, hear that?”

Varric raised his quill in assent.

Solas chuckled a little, and then he gave her a softer look than he had in weeks. “You are thoughtful in how you exert your influence.”

She nodded, accepting the compliment, but did not reply directly. “Alright, Hawke. My scouts should be here by sundown. We’ll find Stroud under the cover of night, try to avoid as many of the Wardens as we can. I don’t want to fight them, and I don’t want to draw them after us.”

He tapped his staff, then gave it a twirl. “Lunch in the meantime, then?”

-:-:-:-:-

“There is…another thing.” Stroud stopped pacing and stared at Hawke. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perished.”

Hawke’s jaw, if it had been dropped open before, was now on the ground.

“Yeesh!” Varric ran a hand across his face.

Solas didn’t need to say anything to convey his displeasure. It radiated off of him like a chill breeze. Cole didn't seem to understand, and Ixchel, of course, was not surprised in the slightest. She ran a hand through her hair and contemplated, briefly, if there was a way she could have brought this up to Leliana and the Inquisition sooner.

Stroud continued speaking before she could follow the train of thought very far.

“My protestations are the reason I have been labeled a traitor,” Stroud said gravely. “I left before they could take action against me, but I learned one thing: Grey Wardens are gathering here, in the Western Approach. There is an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. I plan on leaving immediately to scout the location.”

“Well, fuck,” Hawke and Varric said in unison.

“You can’t go alone,” Hawke said, moving toward Stroud. “If there’s a blood magic ritual involved, if the Call can _control_ Wardens… I’ll go with you. At least until we’re sure what’s going on.”

Stroud clapped him on the shoulder briefly.

“Sorry, Varric.” Hawke sighed. “Guess I won’t be playing you tomorrow.”

“You mean _paying_ me.” But Varric’s face had fallen, disappointed to see his friend go, and Ixchel felt the gnawing pain of guilt in her chest. “I’ll write Fen—”

“Don’t you dare,” Hawke muttered. “But make sure Aveline keeps Carver the hell out of Orlais.”

Varric nodded, and he watched as Hawke and Stroud picked up their arms, gathered Stroud’s supplies, and they set out into the night.

Ixchel put her hand on Varric’s shoulder once the two men had gone, and her dwarven friend put his arm around her waist in kind. Solas stared contemplatively in the direction they had gone. “The Wardens see themselves as the world’s defense against the Blight, do they not?”

“Yeah, everyone knows that,” Varric said.

“When an Archdemon rises, they slay it. What will they do when all Archdemons are slain?”

“Retire?” Varric suggested.

“Without Archdemons, there can be no Blights. Is that the reasoning?”

“Right. Where are you going with this?”

Solas continued to gaze into the dark tunnel from whence they’d come. “I hope they are correct.”

“It’s not like you can study the Blight safely,” Varric said.

“They’ve bought us some time. I will grant them that.”

He turned, and he caught Ixchel’s slack-jawed stare. His eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, but the moment passed. Varric suggested they go to find how to fix the dam mechanisms, and Ixchel nodded, but she found her mind straying back to what Solas had just said. As they walked out of the caves and back toward the fort, she wondered:

_Which came first, the Archdemon or the Blight?_

_The First Blight was after the Magisters entered the Fade… Before that, the Archdemons were just Old Gods, and there were no darkspawn… But if the Magisters were the first darkspawn, how did they make more? How did they spread the Blight?_

_Lyrium is the blood of Titans, and red lyrium is Blighted… I didn’t see any red lyrium in the thaig infested with darkspawn…_

_Corypheus has red lyrium growing out of him for fuck’s sake, so what came first? The Blight or the darkspawn? The Magisters or the darkspawn? The Magisters or the Blight?_

_There’s lyrium in the Fade…?_

Ixchel was so lost in thought that she walked right into a Venatori spellbinder.

In the aftermath of the ensuing battle, Ixchel sat on a rock, badly singed, and let Solas and Varric wag their fingers at her for her carelessness. But she was only listening with half a mind, because she and Cole could both seem to hear it: the song.

“Are you listening?” Varric asked her gruffly.

“Red lyrium, daggers under the skin. It eats them inside until they’re nothing.” Cole nodded. “They hear a different song. The song behind the door old whispers want open.”

 _Archdemons…? The Evanuris…?_ Ixchel stared back at Cole.

“They are dead and dark and done,” was all he said, and she couldn't tell if he was answering her or not.


	25. Chapter 27 Excerpt

“You need to _rest!”_ Varric insisted in a hissing whisper. “We’ve been traveling and fighting since dawn!”

“I need to destroy that lyrium,” Ixchel shot back. “You coming?”

“We did have a nice break in the afternoon,” Cole said dreamily. Ixchel snorted, which alerted a Red Templar on watch. They opened their mouth to shout a warning, only to suddenly sprout a crossbow bolt in the center of their forehead.

“Thanks,” Ixchel told Varric. “Solas?”

He did not act immediately. She met his eyes and frowned at him. “Solas.”

He reluctantly turned back to the scene and raised an ice wall to block the exit to the grove, blocked on the other side as it was by a sheer cliff face and red lyrium growths.

Ixchel slid out of her hiding place on top of a rock and landed nimbly in the middle of the Red Templar camp.

“Surrender!” she cried. “The Inquisition has you surrounded!”

Of course, the knights did not heed her. But she felt better for giving them the chance.

Ixchel was aware of Solas’s presence close at her back, even as she swung her war hammer wildly, not always looking before she swung. Cole and Varric had known to get out of her way, but she felt her ire rising as Solas remained almost too close to her. She resorted to kicking her enemies away, or shoving them in the chest with the hammer, to give her some space to swing to her front, afraid of winding up from the back and hitting Solas on the upswing.

When the last of the Templars fell, their heads bashed in or their throats cut or their brains punctured by crossbow bolts or their nervous systems fried by electricity, Ixchel rounded on Solas.

 _“What was that?!”_ she demanded.

“The last time you were around this much red lyrium—” he began tersely.

“What, the Anchor?” She threw her head back to stare at the sky in disbelief. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m fine, Solas. Last time, I was caught completely by surprise and…and had an emotional breakdown. That’s all.”

Solas caught her hand and began removing her gauntlet. “Then that is even more unpredictable.”

“Life is unpredictable!” She tried to tug her hand back, but his grip on her wrist tightened. “Solas.”

“…But you can hear this song Cole speaks of.”

“That does concern me,” Ixchel insisted. “I am not trying to downplay your worries, _lethallin_. Please believe me.”

His fingers, cool from the ice he had drawn out of the Fade, found her torn palm, She felt his magic probing it, but she did not fight back. “See?” she asked gently. “It’s fine.”

“Uh, Chuckles? Maybe let the lady with the big sword go—there’s something coming!”

Solas released Ixchel immediately, and they whirled round to face the cave entrance. A set of glowing green eyes bobbing in the darkness, a haggard panting voice echoing out before it…

A wolf staggered out of the cave.

It was one of the massive wolves that had turned so feral under the influence of the Fade rifts—but there was no demon-infested pack following it. The wolf hardly seemed to notice the observers; its hindquarters dragged behind it, limp and bloody, and it only managed to make a few more steps out of the mouth of the cave before it collapsed.

Ixchel and Cole ran to it immediately.

“She knew the tears would tear them apart,” Cole said frantically. His lily-white hands fluttered over the wolf’s haunches, but there was nothing to be done. “The wyvern was a risk, but she had to protect him.”

And so it was. The wolf had carried a small cub out of the cave in its mouth, and as the mother panted and whined, the cub began to cry.

Ixchel knelt beside the wolf and carefully picked up the tiny wolf cub. He was so small, she was certain he was a runt, and he skeletally thin beneath his light gray coat.

“You had one, before,” Cole said to Ixchel, his voice pitched low. “Black, like the mother one.”

She cleared her throat.

“It seems right,” he told her.

“Alright.”

Varric approached cautiously, and then his uncertainty became reverence. “Well,” he said distantly. “At least we know there’s a wyvern in there.”

Ixchel tugged at her cloak with one hand and wound it around herself like a sling, and then she placed the weakly struggling cub into it. “Do you think it’s old enough for solid food?” she asked her friends.

Solas crouched beside her. “Its mother is not starving. I imagine the cub is not just malnourished, but ill as well. Perhaps a parasite."

Her breath caught in her throat. She smoothed back the cub’s ears and cooed at it despite herself. “Is that so? We’ll fish out whatever’s in you and put something better in its place. Like fish.”

Solas tilted his head slightly. His pale eyes glinted in the faint light that was given off by the rune carved into Bianca’s arms. “If it has parasites, or perhaps intestinal worms, you are ill-equipped to treat it. And it will take time that you do not have, Inquisitor.”

“Then his last days will be pampered ones,” she told him. The cub flailed its paws at her, caught her hand and seemed to hold it closer. Her heart melted. “But I have a plan, Solas. Have you heard of hold-beasts?”

-:-:-:-:-

With a few well-aimed boulders flung from the far reaches of the Fade, he pulverized most of the red lyrium deposits in the grove. Varric whistled cheerfully once he was done, and he and Cole began wandering in the direction of the Caer. Ixchel was slow to follow. As she tickled her wolf cub’s emaciated ribs, she stared at the statue of Fen’Harel guarding the cave. Solas turned from his work and caught her looking.

“Will you dream here, _lethallin?”_ she asked.

He chuckled. “Perhaps once the dead cease their rising?”

“And the storm passes.” She shook her head and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. He towered over her, and from beneath his cowl, his eyes seemed to glimmer—though now, there was no source of light for them to reflect. She held his gaze. “That wolf was possessed. But not by a demon. And the spirit saved her child. I have to honor that.”

Solas blinked at her slowly, and the glow was gone. “I hope your efforts prove fruitful.”

“It’s the trying that matters, Solas.”


	26. Chapter 27 Excerpt

Ixchel sighed and turned away. “Let’s talk to all the ones we can, just in case we can get them done on the way,” she suggested to the others. “There’s a lot of them here.”

“I suggest we look for another elvhen artifact as well,” Solas said. “I can…hear one nearby.”

She nodded, and they set off. They spoke to a spirit of Dedication who embodied the memory of a woman who would not leave her Blighted son behind, several wisps who had just lost their way back through the rift, and of course, they killed several more Terror demons.

When Ixchel found the elvhen artifact Solas had mentioned, she didn’t hesitate to activate it, but she was questioning the wisdom of it when she didn’t really know what purpose they served. For the most part, she was inclined to believe Solas when he’d said the artifacts strengthened the Veil. She could feel it, anyway: she could feel when the Fade pressed close, and she could feel when it was drawn back, pushed away from her skin with a thicker Veil. But surely the devices served some other function, ultimately, in his plans for the world.

“I can still feel the weakness in the Veil, even above ground. Spirits are being called here like moths to a fla—”

Solas was cut off with a sickening crack was the demon crashed through the side of the hut and tackled him onto the stone wall beside Ixchel. She got a glimpse of too many eyes under the writhing mass of seaweed and teeth.

Solas’s magic fizzled against the wet mass, and Ixchel sprang into action—literally. She came crashing down on top of the beast, and her hammer followed. It encountered resistance from the mass of the demon, but she gleaned no insight into its true shape under the weeds.

Cole sank his daggers into the mass and used them as leverage to drag the creature backward off of Solas. With a blast of Solas’s magic, they gave him enough room to roll out from the creature’s grip. He was bleeding from a cut on the back of his head, and there was a bite torn out of his shoulder. Still, it was Ixchel he cast a barrier over as she swung her hammer at the demon again.

The demon drew itself up with unnatural movements, weeds simply shifting and reforming until it was a towering figure above Ixchel. It began to chuckle, and out of its snarl arose a half-formed voice, as though trying on language for the first time.

“ _Mmmortals_ are _mmmountains_ of mistakes.”

It _itself_ was a mountain. It lurched forward, ignoring Varric’s crossbow bolts. It threw Cole off of its back. And it reached its tendrils out toward Ixchel—and past her.

Solas was grabbed tight and dragged against her back, sandwiching her between his chest and the many maws of the demon within the seaweed. But even as she struggled against it, the wet seaweed writhed, dried, tickled—became fur. “No!” Ixchel shrieked against the shadow of the wolf. She let go of her hammer, but her gloves could find no purchase in the shifting mass around her. She elbowed Solas. “Snap out of it, Solas!” she cried, but he was lost to her for the moment.

The six-eyed wolf laughed around her, and she was quickly losing feeling in her extremities. She couldn’t feel her left arm at all, from the elbow down, as though she had already lost it. But she knew. She knew. She knew because of how much it hurt to know the truth. For now she was whole, and more than whole, for she carried the double burden of two lives at once.

“No!” she howled again, and Ixchel raised her head, stretched to her toes, and tried to expand herself in every direction. The Anchor flared, then was swallowed up in the darkness.

“How many lives were bartered for yours?” the wolf whispered in her ear. “How many lives did you squander when you— _ack!”_

“You should never regret Compassion,” she told it, for it was Cole’s daggers who had carved out a hole for her to reach through, to breathe. She kicked against the cage of shadows, and it dragged her back, hooks in her armor, digging deep. But she had seen Solas stumble away, pulled free by Cole’s efforts, and she was relieved.

She still wasn’t sure if she could fight _his_ Regret on her own.

But Regret had her in its clutches, and it shaped itself to her. She was drowning again, pulled under by shapes in the dark, into the well of mixed Regret and Despair.

She stopped struggling. Tears immediately overwhelmed her, and the weight of her regrets crushed her every muscle. She didn’t need to feel her limbs, her body, because she was composed entirely of regret. She couldn’t open her eyes from the flow of her tears, and she wept freely, adrift, in the cold. She did not fight.

But that only seemed to confuse the demon, and she laughed through her tears.

 _If you are my regrets, then you are welcome,_ she told it. _I even thank you. You have made me better, in many ways._

The pain was overwhelming then, and the demon withdrew in response to it. It had wanted her to feel, and she felt, and now it did not know what to do with itself. Through her blurry vision she saw the putrid foam of the Crestwood lake. She pushed herself up on shaking limbs, but she was tangled in weeds and lake grass.

_You inform my actions. I learn from my mistakes._

_You are not Regret._

Ixchel stood and shrugged off the demon. Its hunched mass shrank from mountain to monster to mutt.

_You are but a mirror._

“You have a troubled relationship with mirrors,” it whispered.

She soothed the many-eyed wolf with a hand on its head. “With a face like mine,” she joked. “Come on. You should go home. Your domain will surely grow in the months to come.”

It contemplated her with its many red eyes, then blinked them slowly, one at a time. Six became four became two, and when the last set of eyes closed, the spirit was gone.

Ixchel fell to her knees in the mud, then fell to her back. Her chest heaved with delayed panic, and she knew she was at risk for Terror, or Despair—

“Sunshine?!”

She didn’t realize how far the demon had dragged her in their struggle. Varric was running at full speed down the bank of the lake, and Cole helped Solas limp along behind him in the distance. Ixchel raised a hand to signal to Varric that she was alive, and when he skidded into the mud beside her, she flinched, because mud was splashed into her face.

“I’m alright,” she sighed. “Need a bath.”

“What was that?”

“Regret demon,” she said. “Probably attracted to the mayor, but I’ve got plenty to go around.” She laughed, and with Varric’s help, she sat up to regroup with Solas and Cole. Ixchel gave Solas a savage, if tired, smile. “You’re welcome.”

He shook his head. He was pale from blood loss from the wound in the juncture of his shoulder and neck. “I cannot recommend you take this as a tactic in the future,” he said gravely. “That was a rather weak Regret, long starved at the bottom of this lake.”

She wished, then, that they knew each others’s secret openly. _She_ knew the power of his Regret—the Regret of a god, of centuries upon centuries of regrets—and she had distracted this demon from taking its shape. She wished _he_ knew what it meant to her, to face a Regret demon, given the double life she was leading, given the hundreds who had died in her name and due to her decisions, given the damage a Regret demon had done to her home, her friends…

“I didn’t have to kill it this time,” she said at last. “That’s a pretty big deal for us.”

 _“‘One by one they follow me, laughing, drowning, into the sea,’”_ Cole said. “The rest of the poem is sad.” He paused, then frowned. “I knew that from you, but you knew it from me.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Cole,” she said, and then she sighed. “I want a bath!” she wailed.

Varric chuckled. “Ass-deep in demons, ass-deep in mud, can’t get a break.”

Ixchel gestured at her bag, fallen some ways away. “There are some lyrium potions and some restorative tonics in there, Solas.”

“Never seen a Regret demon before,” Varric said as Solas went to take care of himself. “Eyes like Pride.”

Ixchel wrung out her soaked, muddy hair. “You can be proud of something in the moment, and regret it forever,” she told him.


	27. Chapter 28 Excerpt

At least she distracted the Revenant long enough for the others to take care of the wraiths. She was just starting to feel her fight take its toll on her when Cole appeared on the Revenant’s back, his knives dug deep in to the chinks in the thing’s armor. It was momentarily distracted enough for her to swing her hammer over her head and brought it crashing down on its helm. The empty armor crumpled to the ground, and the Rift pulsed.

The demons who came after that were hardly any trouble and easily distracted as she tugged on the Rift with the Anchor. When at last the waves ceased and she sealed the Rift, she wheezed with relief and leaned heavily on a nearby pillar.

“There should be some good shit around here,” she grunted at Varric.

Solas approached with a healing tonic in hand. “Are you badly injured?”

“Just battered.” She tossed back the potion and coughed at the burn in her throat. “And exhausted. Wouldn’t mind being carried out of here.”

He snorted, but there was a fondness in the way he looked at her while she shook demon ichor off of her hammer.

“It’s quiet now. The nugs like the quiet,” Cole said.

“And most of the spirits have left.” Ixchel sighed. “I call that a job well done, my friends. Let’s go tell the village.”

-:-:-:-:-

After Ixchel had harvested the valuable components from the wyvern, Varric and Cole offered to carry it to Judith while Solas and Ixchel looked around at the ruins.

She set her hammer down against a rock and walked over to the water’s edge and stood, hands on her hips, as she took in the dragon painted on the wall by her ancestors. The other paintings she had seen repeated across Ferelden in ruins, but this one was new—as was one of pale elves cowering (perhaps) beneath either a Templar’s shield or maybe the six eyes of pride, or maybe something else entirely.

Ixchel tilted her head as she examined the iconography.

“The Veil is thin here.”

She jumped nearly out of her skin, and Solas laughed softly; he had gotten quite close without her realizing it.

“Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?”

“I suppose I thought that was the wyvern guts,” she said sheepishly. She turned to face him, arms crossed. “No…I can actually almost…almost hear them, on the other side.”

“Indeed. I imagine they are a host—those spirits and wisps you helped guide back to the Fade.” He was smiling gently. Then, he inclined his head toward the painted wall. “You seem absorbed in these depictions. There were similar ones in that ruined tower in the Hinterlands.” She nodded at him, warmed by the glint of good humor in his eye. “You mentioned once your fascination with the frescoes of our People.”

“I know these can’t compare to frescoes,” she said, worried that he might think her silly if she conflated the two. “But anywhere I can learn, I would like to.”

He tilted forward, a slight bow as he acknowledged her words, then rocked back on his heels. “You will also recall our more recent discussion, about how some might reject the things I have…witnessed, on my journeys.”

 _What are you getting at?_ And suddenly her heart was stuttering, clumsy in her chest, because there was no way he was about to tell her—anything of importance. Not the Evanuris? Unless… She looked back at the dark paintings, the flashes of red, the sinister aura of them. Perhaps that was Andruil, and her armor of the Void…?

Was this the moment he would reveal himself to her…?

“Yes, I remember,” Ixchel said faintly. “Whatever you have to tell me, Solas, I will hear it with open ears, open mind, open heart.”

“The vallaslin…”

She went very still, awash with conflicting emotions, for at once she knew what he was about to tell her, and both relieved and concerned at what he was not. He seemed to take her reaction as a judgement, so he spoke more quickly.

“You might think that they are a religious tradition to honor the Elvhen gods. And they are, in a way. They were slave markings in the time of ancient Arlathan. A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshipped. They were chains.”

The tension left her immediately. She turned and looked up at him full in the face. His expression was guarded, but when he caught her eye he seemed to relax a little as well. She was not mad, and she was not particularly grief-stricken. It seemed he had expected one of two such reactions from her.

Ixchel tapped her fingers on her biceps, where her arms were crossed, and she sighed.

“I feel sorry, then, for what the People have forgotten. Even eight-hundred years ago, elves of Halamshiral considered the vallaslin to be an honored tradition...” She sighed and fingered her cheek, where one curve of her blood writing was partially marred by a dragonling scar. “But then again, I might be proud to be part of a People who could reclaim something with such ugly history and make it a beautiful work of art.” She paused. “No, I _am_ proud. They mark me as one of them.”

“I know,” he replied. “For everything I have said about the Dalish, I admire that unbending spirit. I… If I hurt you with this knowledge…”

“You didn’t,” she reassured him.

He still did not seem to believe her, so she unfolded her arms and reached for him, put a hand on his elbow.

“You know I like to learn,” she began earnestly. “But I’m not seeking out knowledge in order to bring the world _back_ to the days of Elvhenan. There is glory to be remembered, respect to be carried, things to restore—certainly. But as you’ve revealed to me…there are lessons to be learned as well.” She smoothed out a crease in the sleeve of his sweater. “I hope no one looks back at _this_ time we live in and wishes to restore it in full, but I don’t doubt there would be some who forget, or forgive, or overlook the oppression of the Circles and the Templars, the razing of alienages…”

Solas was frowning now, and she knew again she was speaking both to the hedge mage and to the Dread Wolf.

“We must learn, and look forward, and do our best to make the future…brighter.”

“What if it isn’t?” he asked.

For the first time— _the very first time_ —Ixchel heard an undertone of desperate uncertainty in his voice. She looked up at Solas with wide-eyes and tried to reconcile the man before her with the man who stepped into an eluvian, saying, _‘I will treasure the chance to be wrong once again,’_ as though he knew he never would be.

“What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?”

And though his face was not particularly open to her now, she had _heard_ the doubt in his voice, and he had _asked_ , and it _mattered_.

“There are easier paths than hope,” she reminded him. “But it is what I would choose. I would take a breath, and try to find something that would give me hope: people, possibilities, smaller victories, to inspire myself and others to try again to make the next future better.” She tightened her grip on his elbow, for she had seen something click into place behind his mask and she was afraid of it. “There are always people who will try, and if we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right. You just need the _humility_ to not make the same mistake twice.”

Ixchel stared up at him and tried to gauge where his conclusion had been drawn, what lesson he had been trying to impart and which lesson he had learned, but she could not tell.

She could only hope.

“But…about the vallaslin.” She sighed. “I have no doubt there would be many Dalish who reject a truth like that. What else can they claim to own, to be proud of? Tiny aravels that do not fly? Halla so delicate they cannot carry us into battle? The _Dirthaveren?_ All they have are stories, Solas, to draw pride from. And they are mortal, and mortals have hearts, and when a heart is threatened…we lash out.”

Solas pulled away from her and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned in a slow circle and stared up at the magnificent harts who watched over the wyvern’s grove.

“Yet _you_ have found pride in discovering truths, even this, though it might not be one you liked.”

“And there would be others,” she said firmly. “There are others. There _will_ be others. That is where the trying matters.” She gave his back a sad smile. “If you had not told me, would you believe that?”

 _“Lethallan,_ ” he said, very softly, “do you think your status as an outsider is what allows you to see things with such clarity?”

“No.”

Her response was perhaps too quick, because his gaze dropped to the ground, but she took a moment to consider it. “Yes and no,” she ammended. “I do everything I can to prove, to earn, my elf blood. More than _almost_ anything, I want to belong… You know, among the shems, they say converts are the most faithful. Perhaps that is true of my half-heritage as well, my elf blood that I claim for my own.”

“That is why you are a fervent scholar of your ancestors.”

She hummed in assent. “But…what allows me to accept hard truths without lashing out… It’s my illness, the shadow in my mind, that has made me practice stepping outside of myself. Whatever I may feel in the moment, my survival requires me to take a breath, assess the situation, and try and quantify it with regard to my moral code.” She twisted her fingers, suddenly nervous, suddenly shy, but the strength of her conviction held her course. “That is humility, and patience, and…and…resilience. No virtue among them is inherent, but all can be learned. And even then, I falter. But I try to realize it, and make up for it, and find the people who will support me on that journey.”

In the soft silence, broken only by the gentle sound of water and reeds, Ixchel felt very naïve. “I’m sorry, Solas. I am young and haven’t seen the things you have. I shouldn’t be lecturing you.”

“No, no.” He faced her again, appearing more tired and sad than she had seen him in a long time. “You have not been what I expected, lethallan. You have…impressed me. And though you speak of humility, I urge you not to pass your agency over to someone else—even me. There are lessons I can learn from you, as well, for you possess a wisdom I admire.”

Ixchel nearly covered her face to hide her blush, and only stopped her hand halfway. She fidgeted with a buckle on her armor instead, but his eyes were trained keenly on her face and she knew there was no hiding it. “Ah. Uhm. Thank you. And… Solas.” She forced herself, flushed red as she was, to smile at him measure for measure. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He returned her smile, in his own, thin way.

Later, as Solas unrolled a bedroll and prepared to visit the memories of the grove in the Fade, a thought occurred to her. “Solas… Does wearing this give Dirthamen any power over me? Whatever he was—wherever they are…?”

“You have seen the power required to breach the Fade,” he said. “If your legends are true, then one might surmise the Elvhen gods do not have that power. But, to answer your specific question… I do not know.”

She chewed her lip as she cleaned her hammer. She had gotten most of the blood off, but wyvern blood was acidic and it had already marred the once mirror-polished surface. “No one should be a slave to another's will,” she murmured down at the distorted reflection.

“On that, one would hope there would be no question.” He sighed and settled down, his hands folded peacefully on his stomach. “For now, there is nothing to fear from the gods, thanks to your Dread Wolf.”

“Cackling and hugging himself deep in the Fade?” She laughed. “That one is strangest of all.”

“Yet remarkably consistent," he muttered.


	28. Chapter 29 Excerpt

They ate a small meal of seeded rations in the shelter of a rocky outcropping most of the up the westward coast. Ixchel’s fingers and face were numb with cold, and that only made the already unpleasant rations almost unbearably tasteless and mealy. She made a face as she chewed, and Solas chuckled, looking away.

In the grey afternoon, she thought of eluvians and the fog of the Crossroads Morrigan had shown her with the help of the Well of Sorrows. And she thought of the part of the Crossroads Solas had led her through, in pursuit of the Qunari at the Exalted Council. It had been so much more _colorful_ there, like glass from Serault, but Varric had seen only gray… They had spent too much time standing there, staring at the swirling sky, trying to understand, and now she did. There was old blood in her, unsundered, soaked in the Fade…

“I wonder what emotion was like, in Elvhenan,” she mused. “Spirits embody such disparate, strong qualities. What must people have been like, in a society built alongside them?”

She heard Solas’s breath as he smiled, though his hood obscured it. “The way the Dalish speak of their gods, one might imagine emotion ran high among the elves, if they were anything like those they worshiped.”

“I wouldn’t personally take such parables as historical accounts,” she said, and there was that sound again—the hint of a laugh. She smiled a bit, then asked, almost shyly, “Do you have any tales of them in action, _lethallin?”_

He fingered a crumb that had landed on his breeches, such a mundane gesture, but it only fed the part of her that was afraid and in awe of his true power.

“The Fade still trembles with memories of memories of memories of them.”

He began to gesture, and she studied his hands, the long, lily-white fluttering of them as he spoke.

“Sometimes I wonder if fear is the one trait that unites all living things. It certainly has been present in the world since times even forgotten by the gods themselves. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. As societies grow, they insist upon chains of command, protectors, leaders. In times of war, generals. In times of peace, respected elders, or kings. Mortal men who were not mages have been remembered as living gods, as ways to describe their otherwise impossible feats. Andraste was named the Bride of the Maker for her deeds… Imagine how terrifyingly unique one must have been, in an empire of mages with power far beyond any reckoning today, that they might name you a god.”

She had imagined it, indeed. _Asha’bellanar_ was a mortal witch who held a fragment of a wisp of a memory of Mythal, and she was one of the most powerful and enigmatic beings on the face of Thedas. And Solas… She had tasted divinity on his lips. She had watched him turn a courtyard of Qunari into solid granite. But she knew he bled, and his heart beat, and she had known who held it.

She felt like she had been walking a thin line, drawn so close by the desire for company—company who _understood_ , who could be at once awe-struck and critical of these wonders of the past, the way she knew Solas could be. In another world, they could have traveled together, tutor and pupil, and she would have been happy… But she could not tell Solas. She could not.

Ixchel dragged her fingers across the wet stone beneath her. She could not stop herself from sharing: “I found a sealed place, so ancient it stole my breath to feed the whispers inside. I heard the voice of Geldauran, the Forgotten One: _‘There are no gods. There is only the subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon. Those with will to earn dominance over others gain title not by nature but by deed. I refuse those who would exert will upon me…’”_

She trailed off. “I was so very young then, but still I understood.” Ixchel shook herself, straightened her legs and tried not to meet Solas’s gaze. “But now I wonder: the things we forgot…are they because the people in power want us to forget, or because the people who were forgotten were too assured of their importance that they didn’t care?”

“Old pain,” Cole said, and both Ixchel and Solas flinched in surprise. He had been so silent during the day’s travels that both had fallen into the unconscious state of forgetting him. “Shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change.”

Solas did not turn to look at either of them. Ixchel reluctantly turned to Cole, opened her mouth to stop him, but was caught off guard by his stare. They locked eyes, and her voice died in her throat.

“They’re all singing. Coffers, coffins, corpses that aren’t dead. A song crying out in the dark. _We cannot get out._ Drums. Drums in the deep.”

“Well, shit.” The curse left her before she could quell it, her visceral distaste for the Deep Roads. _Waves of darkspawn, emissaries and their putrid laughing breaths, the Sha-Brytol’s white eyes and their blue lyrium glares, and—_

“You must return soon.”

At this, Solas did turn to her. “You are as pale as the grave,” he noted.

“There’s…” She worked a piece of tack around her mouth uneasily. “I…I had a bad experience, falling into the Deep Roads.”

Cole reached for her. “You’re brighter now, and the dark is not _darker.”_

“Isn’t it?”

The two young people stared at one another, both helpless. Cole’s eyes searched hers, brow furrowed as though what he saw brought him pain. “Floating, falling, cold—so cold there is no difference between skin and air—forget your shape and forget to breathe—”

 _“Cole,”_ Solas said firmly.

The spirit vanished, his hat pulled down over his ears.

Ixchel’s chest hurt with every breath as if she were drowning in those floodwaters again. She pulled her legs back up to her chest and buried her face in her knees to avoid Solas’s scrutiny. “I told him to stay out,” she said weakly. “It’s too much for him.”

Solas exhaled, long and slow. “I have been trying to help him,” he said. “You have a different way of seeing pain than most, I believe… He is distressed when the methods he uses on others fail on you.”

She kept her face hidden and focused on trying to breathe.

Her companion continued, almost meditatively. “You are nothing if not direct. Objective, removed, from your own feelings, as you said, so that you can examine them head-on. Many separate themselves from their pain so that they _can_ forget, and what they forget festers—and that is what Cole does best. He would remind us of what we have forgotten, so that we may learn from the feeling.”

Solas’s clothes shifted and whispered as he moved, and when she glanced up from under her damp lashes she found him sitting in a position that mirrored her own, though he had folded his arms over his knees to cushion his chin as he watched her. “You have been restless in your sleep, _lethallan_. Has the Nightmare found you of late?”

“Not the one serving Corypheus,” she mumbled. “This isn't… I just…really don’t like being underground.”

But it was more than that. It was utter darkness, loss of sensation, formlessness. Feeling lost in tunnels that would come crumbling down on her, certain no one would find her in the rushing waters, and no one would know to look. Powerless and meaningless and unmemorable in the end, another forgotten casualty on the way to the end of the world.

The silence stretched between them, and she almost wanted to cover her ears against it. She forced herself to break it.

“Could you…tell me about something you’ve found on your travels?” she asked softly.

He smiled and thought a moment. “I once found an ancient dwarven thaig no longer sheltered by the stone... An earthquake had exposed it all to daylight. A thousand dwarven corpses lay, the victims of a darkspawn horde, their last stand marked by one great ring of armor. In the middle, one small body, clutching tightly to a small stuffed toy. Vain hope in what must have seemed an endless dark. But their efforts were preserved, and I remembered.”


	29. Chapter 30 Excerpt

Ixchel tried not to look like she knew where she was going, and it helped that she had sort-of forgotten. They reached the main mining hall and swept it clear of Red Templars with minimal injuries, and Ixchel had Solas and Bull destroy as much of the lyrium as possible. Ixchel stood with Solas while he worked, keeping an eye out for any sign of reinforcements.

“It’s weird there are no Behemoths,” she muttered.

“Perhaps those we have seen are on their way to becoming them,” Solas said as another mountain of red lyrium crumbled beneath his magic.

“Or maybe the Elder One has them gathering somewhere else.” She tapped her foot nervously. “Varric’ll be pleased we’ve destroyed so much of this shit, at least.”

“Has the…song…been bothering you?” he asked. The word ‘song’ left his mouth almost reluctantly, as though the very thought of it displeased him.

Ixchel shrugged. “It bothers me that I can hear it _at all._ But not particularly, no.”

Cole crept up beside them. “They didn’t get to say goodbye,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“The Templars from Therinfal. One wanted to make the world safe for his daughter. Then he turned red inside. She doesn’t know.”

Ixchel’s face pinched, and she looked at Solas. “If only they didn’t all _crumble_ when they died, we could get word of their passing to their families.”

He tilted his head a little. “Would it be unkind, to tell a young daughter her father was used in such a way?”

She chewed her lip. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and she turned to lead the mercenaries out of storage and into the docks proper.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel took Solas and Cole to go activate the elvhen artifact, and she was suddenly so extremely grateful for the Blades of Hessarion, because when they heard a bear bearing down on them the mercenaries swarmed over to help her out.

When at last Ixchel stood in front of the strange basalt caves where she knew the artifact was hidden, she hugged herself, hung her head, and said, “Cole, this might be hard for you.”

He pulled his hat down over his ears. “I’m not listening,” he said proudly.

Solas put a comforting hand on each of their shoulders. “I am well-acquainted with giant spiders, my friends. Perhaps I can clear the way ahead, so you do not have to linger here long.”

“There’s a rift in there, _lethallin_ ,” Ixchel told him.

“Then I will deal with the spiders and come fetch you.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Or, I will bring the demons out here.”

She watched him disappear into the dark, and Cole immediately rounded on her. He placed his hands on her shoulder and bumped his forehead against hers. “It’s okay,” he said. “The songs are old there, sleeping sadness already forgotten. I can’t help that hurt. I can’t help yours. Not yet. I understand.”

Tears pricked at Ixchel’s eyes, but Cole continued, in a lower voice.

“When I’m near a Rift, Solas tells me to focus on what is here, in this world. ‘Feel the ground, the breath in your lungs, fabric rustling against your skin.’” Cole took a deep breath, as an example. “Being _pulled_ through means you don’t have enough you. You become what batters you, bruises your being.”

Ixchel raised a hand to his cheek and breathed. “Thank you, Cole.”

He beamed at her, and they held hands as they stood and waited for Solas to return. Cole fidgeted a lot, for a spirit, playing with her fingers, fiddling with the metal brackets at the end of the straps on her armor.

Suddenly, he said, “You and Solas sound the same, but I won’t say, don’t worry.”

And then Solas stepped out of the cave, and Ixchel did not have time to reply, because he _had_ brought a Rage demon crawling behind him.


	30. Chapter 30 Excerpt

Harding had travelled back with Ixchel, bringing a cart with her to resupply, and she headed over to the newly-opened stable area with a parting wave to her Inquisitor. Blackwall took Ixchel’s horse in the same direction, and Cole vanished and reappeared near the surgeon’s tents.

“Never tires of helping,” Ixchel observed warmly.

“Indeed.” Solas hopped a little, readjusting his heavy bags on his back. “I am told I have been given the rotunda. Would you perchance be headed in that direction?”

Ixchel’s smile was stiff. She couldn’t help it. She had spent a great deal of time wondering if she were ready to enter the rotunda. It had been years since she had seen its walls adorned with frescoes, so she didn't think it would hurt very much to see it bare again. It was going to be fresh, and she felt, for the first time in a long while... fresh.

“Unless I get swarmed by my dear advisers along the way,” she said, and she followed Solas up the stairs to the great hall. It was not nearly as populated as it one day would be, with people of all nationalities and backgrounds coming to witness and aide the Inquisition. The simple high-backed chair of the Inquisitor had been placed under the stained glass at the far end, but not even the tables had been brought in. No drapery was hung from the rafters, and the walls were still bare of anything except for one large Inquisition banner.

There was much work to be done.

When Ixchel entered the rotunda after Solas, she stopped and took it all in. Bare walls, no scaffolding. A chaise longue long enough for an elf, and a single side table with a vase on it—empty of flowers. Solas’s desk was pushed up against a wall awkwardly, likewise bare of personality.

She had been worried about Regret. She had been worried about Despair.

But Ixchel surprised herself, because as she looked around at the high walls, she felt a strangely light. She wondered if his frescoes would be different. She knew she would be braver, less shy, about spending time with him here, watching him paint.

And as Solas set down his belongings on the floor by the chaise, she recognized that light feeling as a glimmering thread of hope.

He beckoned her over, and when she arrived at his side, he lay a bundle of clattering tools on the cushion. Paint brushes, plaster knives, mortars and pestles, charcoal sticks, tools for applying and burnishing gold leaf—it was all there. “When Lady Montilyet assigned me this space, I had a thought,” he said. “I would like to record these historic times in the style of our People. If that pleases—”

Solas cut himself off, because Ixchel had closed the space between them and tugged him into a hug. She buried her face in his chest, arms tight around his ribs where she could reach, and her heart swelled to bursting when he laughed under her ear. It was a beautiful sound, as light as she felt in that moment. Of course, she had taken it as a given that the rotunda would once again be filled with his artwork; he had not asked for permission, before, and instead he had simply acted, and in the end she had understood that it was a gift to her, but it had also been something important to him.

But she had not expected this. Now he lay it out for her, offered it, seemed so _pleased_ that he had brought her such joy.

Solas wrapped his arms around her in return, and he rested his cheek on her hair. He was still chuckling. “I take it that I have your permission then?”

“Only if I get to watch you work sometimes,” she said, still into his chest. She did not even mind the wolf jawbone pressing into her cheek.

“You are _vibrating_ , _lethallan_ ,” he said, giving her a squeeze.

He was right. This had given her far too much energy to be contained. She pulled away and began pacing the circumference of the room. “Teach me all the iconography! How you mix the paint! What minerals must I requisition for you? Gold? You’ll have it.”

Ixchel turned back to him, beaming. She pointed at herself. “ _Ajuelan_ ,” and then she pointed at him, “ _Raj’aju’en_!”

The relief and innocent pleasure on his face warmed her so much, she could dance. 


	31. Chapter 32 Excerpt

-:-:-:-:-

The next morning, Ixchel woke before dawn with a raging headache. She had kicked off all of her clothes and left the hides and furs strewn about all over her floor, and she hadn’t drank enough water. Her mouth tasted like hell and she was covered in a sheen of sweat—and she really couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.

Rolling out of her bed, she picked up her hides and dressed herself, then examined herself in the mirror to see how bad her burnt hair looked after a wash. Fortunately, the immolation had caught at the ends, and she didn’t have the same early-onset-balding patchiness she’d suffered through after a dragon had caught her as a younger woman. But it was unfortunately now a little too uneven to be put back into braids without bits sticking out all over the place.

She made a face at herself, scars and ink twisting gruesomely in the reflection, and she turned herself upside down to untangle the mess of hair.

Then, she pulled her fur-lined hide wrappings closer to her and went downstairs.

It seemed much of Skyhold was still asleep. Of course, there were soldiers and workers out and about, doing their morning duties and exercises. She stood at the entrance to the great hall and looked out at the courtyards for some time, watching them. The sun was long to rise yet, and Skyhold was hushed and cold in the pre-dawn dimness. And she was so fond of it.

Ixchel eventually wandered toward the rotunda, careful to keep her bare feet light on the stone and the doors quiet behind her. She couldn’t decide if she was surprised that Solas was awake already. Dreamers were notoriously hard to wake, and Solas in particular loved to dream. But he was lounging on his chaise with a small plate in hand and a book in his lap—a half-eaten apple tart half-way to his mouth.

He had the nerve to look slightly abashed as he put the rest of it in his mouth.

 _“On dhea,”_ she said fondly.

He nodded at her and covered his mouth with a delicate hand while he chewed.

“May I?” she asked.

He nodded again, and she lifted his armchair up so she could move it closer to him without it scraping loudly on the floor. She settled it at the end of the chaise, which she used as a foot rest. Then, she settled back and looked up at the rookery in the distance.

Her head still ached.

“Vandal aria?”

“Someone sent a tonic of it,” she murmured. “Might have to go out to the Western Approach and fetch more myself.”

He made a sound, like a smile, but she did not look to see.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

 _“‘Our Orlesian Heart.’”_ He closed the book and set it aside. “Lady Montilyet requisitioned several resources for me, mostly related to the Fade.”

Ixchel gave the rookery a smirk. "What is this one about?"

“The former Sister Laudine was chased out of the Chantry for revealing an artifact that supposedly showed the ancient elves believed in the maker as actually a…book of marital instruction.”

Of course, Ixchel knew of Laudine. Varric had commissioned Laudine and several other _nontraditional_ scholars to investigate a portion of the Deep Roads under the Silent Plains, where a piece of what Ixchel guessed might have belonged to the Vir Dirthara was located. Somehow. The adventure had not gone well, and the report had been harrowing, but she assumed half of it was aggrandizing. She had not ever read _Our Orlesian Heart_ herself, but Varric said it was almost as raunchy as _Swords & Shields._

“Does she report these instructions?” she asked blithely. “What does it have to do with the Fade?”

Ixchel made the mistake of glancing back at Solas. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “The Fade is limited by what you can imagine, _lethallan_. It instructs one to…expand that boundary.”

She blushed so hard it made her head spin. She snapped her eyes back up to the rookery.

“Still don’t see its academic merit,” she replied.

Solas continued to smile. “Have you rested well, now that you once again have a mattress and a wash basin?”

“And an open tab at the tavern? Yes,” she said enthusiastically.

“Ah. That certainly would keep any Nightmare out. But at what cost?”

“I can _hear_ the smirk in your voice,” she whined. “You don’t know what I had to deal with. Cassandra was going to kill Varric. And then poor Harding has a crush on _Dorian_ of all people. I saved the _world_ twice over yesterday. Or at least, _their_ worlds.”

She slumped lower in the arm chair, and Solas moved his legs to give her some more room to stretch out hers on the chaise alongside him.

He was chuckling thoughtfully. “I met a friendly spirit who observed the dreams of village girls as love first blossomed in their adolescence. With subtlety, she’d steer them all to village boys with gentle hearts who would return their love with gentle kindness. The Matchmaker, so I called her. That small village never knew its luck.”

Ixchel looked back at him then. “What was she a spirit of?”

Solas shrugged one shoulder slowly, then settled back, his hands folded on his stomach. “She was kind, but that does not mean she need be a spirit of Compassion. The divide between spirits may seem stark to the Chantry, but it is not always so clean.”

“Are there spirits of Love?”

“Certainly. They are rare, and not what you might imagine.” He held her gaze with no heat, no curious questions, just comfortable interest. “Love is not only Passion. Love is not only _Com_ passion. Love may see like Envy, or Desire—or Despair.” He inclined his head toward her. “You know something of such nuance. Purpose can be Hope, or it can be Pride, or it can be Despair.”

Ixchel contemplated this and shifted again. Her half-human circulatory system was failing her, and her feet were cold. She felt guilty and shy, but she dared anyway to drew her knees up and slipped her toes under Solas’s legs to keep them warm. She felt simultaneously less, and even more guilty when he shifted to better accommodate her.

“This is a curious outfit you’re wearing,” he noted. “Does it not keep you warm?”

“Oh, quite. The Avvar augur gifted me it.” She pulled it closer around her neck. “He is a bit of a brute, but I think you might enjoy the Avvar’s philosophies. He has told me the wolf’s named itself Amarok. He’s already doubled in size.”

“And that is another curious addition to your image: a wolf at the side of a Dalish warrior?”

“Oh, I told him to avoid Dalish hounds lest he lose his tail.” She snickered. “It’s my understanding from the…wall paintings--I know they’re not frescoes--that my ancestors rode wolves as well as halla.”

Something tightened around the edge of Solas’s smile, and she tucked that observation away somewhere deep, a pile of clues for a mystery she may not ever need to solve, if things worked out. “Indeed... He was quite small, this cub. Doubling in size does not a mount make.”

“Don’t spoil my fun,” Ixchel grumbled with another smile.

Her stomach rolled uncomfortably, and her smile turned to a grimace.

Solas leaned forward a little. “Come here,” he said, and now his stare had something else in it. The reluctant desire, the almost-guilt—she recognized it. Had his voice gotten deeper, headier?

She leaned forward anyway, frowning.

His hands came up to her temples, thumbs pressed to the center of her forehead, and for the first moment she thought his hands were hot as coals against her chilled skin. Then, they grew cool, and the skin beneath tingled with magic. He pressed his thumbs across her forehead, down the sides of her face, lingering on her throbbing temples, then pushed back through her hair and followed the pulse that drummed in her aching head. The pulse eased, and when his fingers had reached the back of her neck, her headache was gone.

Ixchel shuddered as all the tension left her neck and shoulders. Her head had bowed as he moved his hands through her hair, and she was glad she had dropped her eyes from his. With the headache gone, she felt weak and empty. She wanted nothing more than to curl up, hide under his arm, and go back to sleep.

“…Thanks,” she breathed as she tried to regain some composure.

 _“Sathem,”_ he replied, voice deep and warm and low. “Do you have grand plans for the day?”

Ixchel was finding it difficult to sit up. She propped her head on her hands and breathed in deeply. She smelled the vandal aria on her skin and in her hair, and she smelled him, and she smelled magic.

“I am to go toe-to-toe with the Iron Lady on matters of politics and couture. Oh, yes, and Lady Montilyet is going to be organizing dance and etiquette lessons for us ahead of the supposed ball at the Winter Palace.”

“Hm. Preparing for the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex of the court?”

“I should hope not,” she replied, and she hoped her voice did not tremble. The lilt in his voice, the _fun_ he was having…

She remembered her awe at his blithe comfort when he had spoken to her, lounging in a corner at the Winter palace. The notes in his voice still aroused that thrill—certainly, it was the thrill of a mortal being caught in the hungry and approving gaze of a much more powerful predator—but it was now tinged with unease.

Because Ixchel knew why he had been so _pleased_ at Halamshiral that evening: within the first hour, he had stolen the eluvians from Briala.

Ixchel had suffered the whispers, the stares, the _rabbitrabbitrabbit_ , danced the stupid political dance as her advisers had directed, and she had felt naked and scrutinized and objectified, all so that the Orlesian pigs were distracted from a bare-faced elven "servant" sneaking around with some ancient mirrors. She had never really forgiven him for it.

Then again, she had tried not to show how it had effected her. Maybe if she had…

“I would rather not bring up any association with _this_ Dalish savage, sex, and, say, a Chevalier.”

Solas’s hand rested on her knee. For a moment, he did not say anything.

Then he tucked a ragged lock of hair behind her ear. _“Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma.”_

Ixchel leaned back, her ear twitching where he’d touched it, and avoided his gaze. He had uttered the promise so darkly, there was murder in it.

“Were there more of those tarts?” she asked, reclaiming her legs from under him and moving to make a quick exit.


	32. Chapter 34 and Chapter 35 Excerpts

They dressed and ate, and Ixchel told him some of Solas. He was her gifted, clanless hedge mage who had spent much of his life traveling ruins as she had—with the added gift for Dreaming. An endless supply of true—or at least, spirit-remembered—lore from Elvhenan and lost civilizations, he was also a powerful mage with a strong dedication to the People.

Perhaps a little too strong, she amended. “He doesn’t think the Dalish would ever want to know. One of the ones who thinks he’s a true elf, and no one else wants to be.”

“Well,” Ter had replied, “he’s not wrong.”

She had turned wide eyes on him, and he’d chuckled. “Sure, Ixchel. Sure.”

They both had discussed the previous day how important it was to collect not just the remembered history of the Dalish—and of that of the Dales before the Exalted Marches—but also to correct it. It could no longer be the case that history belonged to the educated elite of Orlais, kept in dusty tomes locked away from the public eye. If the world were ever going to learn from the past and the mistakes of their predecessors, they would need access. And half-remembered, glossed-smooth parables would not suffice.

So Ixchel knew, that despite her hesitation and despite Ter’s roguish smirks, they needed Ter to hear some of these truths from Solas himself, and for Solas to see that there were Dalish willing to listen to them.  
Ixchel was glad that she was wearing gloves, because her palms were sweating profusely as she dragged Terinelan down to the rotunda.

Solas was still working on the base colors of his first panel of the fresco. He had already sketched out much of the rest in charcoal, up to the events of Haven’s fall, and Ter drank it all in with awe.

Solas looked over his shoulder at them when the door shut behind them. His eyes did not noticeably flicker to Ixchel and Ter’s joined hands; his expression did not noticably change from its impassive mask; he hardly even stopped painting. And yet, Ixchel noticed, and her heart twisted.

“Solas,” she greeted. “The First of Clan Lavellan has come to visit us.”

 _“Tuelanen i'na,”_ Solas said, and he set down his paintbrush.

 _“Tundra ghi’l em amahn,”_ Ter replied. “Ixchel has told me you are a mage of great power, and an explorer of our shared history. I would be honored to learn from you while I am here, _hahren.”_

Solas carefully wiped his hands on a paint- and charcoal-dirtied rag, and he approached them. Ixchel almost shrank back, because suddenly it seemed that he was taller, that he strode more purposefully—and that purpose was not a kind one. His footsteps were loping like a predator’s and he towered as he asked:

“What if the only thing I can teach you, is how everything you have ever learned is wrong?” His voice was significantly colder than Ixchel had hoped. He pinned Terinelan with narrowed eyes. “What if generations of your ancestors have spun myths into history, and fragmented history into myth?”

Ixchel held her breath.

“Then they did the best they could have, with what was available,” Ter said, “and I will aspire to do better, with your help.”

Solas looked down, and the Veil pressed back thick around them; the menace and danger had passed, and Ixchel recognized the tiniest trace of a smile twitch at his face. When he glanced up in her direction, she offered him a small, hesitant smile.

“Perhaps it is the trying that matter,” he said, so simply, as if such an admission did not rock her, did not heal something broken within her, did not give her such unbelievable hope. “Very well. Let us interrogate this history you speak of. Preferably on more neutral ground. The gardens, perhaps?”

-:-:-:-:-

At last, she felt like she had accomplished enough, and she headed out to the gardens. Her friends were there, and she leaned against a stone column to observe them, for neither of whom had noticed her arrival.

They were tucked in the veranda: Solas gesturing and speaking, Ter watching the flowing movement of his hands and nodding. She wondered what Solas had been telling him. Did he start with the vallaslin, or some greater heresy? Was it one she had already known?

She would have been content to wait there for hours, watching them from afar, and she could not particularly pinpoint why she was reluctant to join them. She wanted to hear more stories from Solas. She wanted to sit with him and have him teach her truer history than she had learned in her own wanderings or from the stories of Lavellan’s Keepers. But she wanted, more than anything, for Solas to bask in the pride and exhilarated interest of his audience for as long as possible.

She and Ter both understood that whatever movement they were about to start, it had to be a better option for the poor, the downtrodden—human, thin- and full-blooded elves alike. Her movement had to be more appealing, more promising, than whatever revolution the other agents of change might propose. What Ter perhaps had not yet realized was that Ixchel hoped their movement would be a better option for those agitators themselves.

And she had been careful not to tell Terinelan the identity of the outside agitators for a new world order. She had not spoken of Fen’Harel or Briala, or of the inevitable Qunari invasion. So she watched Fen’Harel and his new pupil, and she hoped that in Ter’s face he saw the beginning of a new world—not ghosts reminding him of the end of one.

-:-:-:-:-

She could not shake the melancholy that had fallen over her when Morrigan left. They had appeared to each other as shrewd women with agendas, and it left a bitter taste in Ixchel’s mouth. Once, the witch had been _only_ a friend—a role model—someone to learn from. And once, Solas had only been her idol, her tutor, her beloved. Once, Roderick had been only her enemy.

Things had been so much simpler, and so much less sad, when she had not known so much.

It broke her heart to admit it, but she did not, at the moment, want to learn anything more.

Ixchel quietly escaped the gardens through the back staircase and stood on the battlements overlooking the river valley. The wind whipped her hair about her face viciously, stung her eyes, but she stared relentlessly downward at the growing barracks, the lit watch towers, the caravans trailing toward Skyhold like iron filings to a magnet.

_“Dirthara ma.”_


	33. Chapter 36 Excerpt

Ixchel had tried to escape the gardens by climbing up the roof, and there she had found an arrow. She recognized it by its style—ancient Elvhen, like those wielded by Sentinels she had encountered over the years. And she recognized the writing: _bellanaris din’an heem._

She climbed all the way up to her rooms and studied it in private, but she was unable to place its age amid the construction of Skyhold’s facade. Once again, she wished she could ask Solas.

She set it down on her wardrobe, along with the note about an inscription found amid Skyhold’s construction _under_ a pillar. “Old, bust still long after the place had been built over,” according to Gattli and the archivist working together.

_Var’landivalis him sa bellanaris san elgar_   
_Melanada him sa’miras fena’taldin_   
_Nadasalin telrevas ne suli telsethenera_   
_Tarasyl’an te’las vehn’ir abelath’vir_

She recognized now that Solas had refused to translate it for them correctly lest he tip his hand, but she understood enough to know it was about the Dread Wolf. It certainly sounded like him—apologies and promises.

Ixchel climbed down again from her quarters and began her usual circuit through Skyhold: through the rotunda to the battlements, then down, spiraling around to catch as many friends and companions and followers as she could. Solas was not painting, but standing over his desk and shuffling through papers with a stormy look on his face. A few shards were laid out in front of him.

“You’ve discovered something,” Ixchel said. “Something you don’t like.”

“Each ocularum is made from the skull of a Tranquil.”

She stopped in her tracks. “What.”

“I had wondered what happened to them when the Circles fell,” he said bitterly. “I almost wish I had not looked.”

He stepped aside and nodded at a paper on his desk.

_Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards. Without them, the Venatori cannot claim the treasure our master seeks. For that, we need the oculara. Without them, the shards are nearly impossible to find, even if they are no longer cloaked by whatever magic hid them for all these centuries._

_There must be more Tranquil in the area—the rebels abandoned most of them when they fled their Circles._

_Remember, the skull will only attune properly if the Tranquil is in close proximity to one of the shards when the demon is forced to possess him. Even then, the blow must be delivered immediately. The oculara produced from Tranquil killed even minutes later failed to illuminate the shards when used._

_I trust you to continue your efforts in this matter. Our master expects success._

Ixchel rounded on Solas, her eyes wide. They stared at each other in shared fury and disbelief, and then Ixchel snatched up the paper and stormed toward the stairs to the library.

Solas rushed behind her and caught her by the elbow. “What are you going to say?” he asked forcefully.

She knew he was right. She knew that if she shoved this in to Dorian’s face, he would excuse Alexius’s actions as just part of the culture he had been raised in: one where Tranquil were hardly deemed sentient creatures. She knew it was part of a conversation that was just as futile as arguing with Vivienne about the worthlessness of Circles and Templars.

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the note.

Ixchel turned to place her back against the wall and slid down it until she was curled at its base, knees to her forehead. “How do you convince someone to stop denying another’s fundamental worth as a living creature?” she asked the floor hopelessly.

Solas leaned against the wall beside her. “It is a lesson I still have not learned. In my experience… _scolding_ them has not produced reliable results.”

She shuddered at his chagrined tone.

Dorian was a kind, sympathetic, _good_ person. She knew that he could be made to doubt the atrocities his countrymen took for granted—but he had already started that journey on his _own_. How many Orlesians, how many other Tevinters, had done enough self-reflection to even begin questioning the cruelty their entire culture was founded upon? How many good people were there, really?

There were far too many whose hearts had atrophied, who could not be bothered to care about how their actions and words might hurt others—even to the point of costing someone else’s life. What would she need to say or do to resurrect that seed of empathy they had surely let die within them…? What would she need to say or do to have them _want_ to be empathetic creatures once more…?

“Fuck,” she hissed through her teeth. She dug her nails into her scalp and squeezed her eyes shut until she saw stars. “Fuck… I need King Alistair to send me Alexius. I must make an example of him.”

She looked up at Solas wearily. He had his arms crossed and was looking down at her such that the harsh shadows cast across his face highlighted his clenched jaw, his flared nostrils. “What will you do?”

“Pardon him,” she said in a mounrful tone. She held his gaze and searched it for any kernel of wisdom she could find. She found only muted fury. “I would like to kill him, but… He has to be an example. There has to be room for redemption in my world. I have to believe… I must convince myself…” She bit her lip, then burst out: “If you live alongside someone, you have to start seeing their worth, right? So he’ll serve alongside our Tranquil and research the theoretical magic bullshit, and we’ll treat them with equal dignity, and they’ll see. They’ll _all_ see.”

But she knew her words lacked conviction, and she knew that he knew she hadn’t yet convinced herself. He held out his hand for her, and she took it, to stand. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her, as though a physical bulwark might keep her doubts at bay. But he released her hand once she had stood, and she was left with the pilfered note and the weight of her looming judgement hanging over her head.

-:-:-:-:-


	34. Chapter 37 Excerpt

Cullen had run off, and Blackwall and Cassandra were currently out in the field, having been excused from the dance lessons, but Ixchel had gifts for them too. She had to sort through them to get to Solas's.

She knew he did not need a new staff, or amulets of power, or even any gifts, really. What could she give a god? A god who might leave? So Solas, she presented a folded set of robes she had helped sew herself, and a pillow she had likewise made--stuffed with small sachets of herbs for calmer sleep. 

As he took the gifts and held them to his chest, there was a look in his eye that was purely warm and grateful. She gazed up at him, her heart aching in her chest, and she forced herself to turn away.

"I think we must take a brief intermission to put away all of this finery," Vivienne announced, and everyone immediately fled the room.

-:-:-:-:-

She had been going over a report on Cullen's red lyrium tracking operation and Blackwall had seen some of it over her shoulder. He harrumphed and sat heavily by the fire and muttered, "Those Red Templars...how could any soldier let that happen to them?"

Solas looked over from where he had been looking up at the stars; his expression was almost bored, but in the light of their fire Ixchel Ixchel could see a canny and almost antagonistic gleam reflected in his eyes. "They were Templars," he said.

Ixchel was very glad that Cassandra had taken up her pacing and meditation a little ways from camp. This was a conversation she wouldn't be able to refrain from.

"I suppose you might look down upon them, as a mage," said Blackwall tersely. He glanced at Ixchel, who shook her head. She was not adding to this, and he should know where she stood on the issue.

"It is not looking down upon them to recognize what they are," Solas said quietly. He raised a hand in a gesture of allowance. "Some, like Ser Barris, are thoughtful soldiers doing what they believe is right. The rest? Younger sons, petty criminals, thugs, bullies, orphans..."

"There is honor in finding a duty such as theirs," Blackwall insisted.

Solas scoffed. "Either they are accustomed to a life without choices, to following even the worst orders... Or they have learned to enjoy causing pain, to leap at any chance to swing a sword harder." He let his hand fall back to his chest. "Many mages are also no more than brutes, seeing nothing more than a larger ball of fire."

"In my life," Ixchel said, stirring uncomfortably in her seat, "I have seen how much easier it is for mortal men to relinquish moral authority to their superiors, and to cling to their orders as allowance to stray from their conscience, than it is for them to listen to their conscience and fight for what they truly believe in. The Chantry, the army, our system of governance with their lords and ladies and dukes and marquises, it's all built to encourage people to quell their personal conscience and place their trust in the morality of their leaders." She bit her lip, and she didn't look at Blackwall. "It's easier, isn't it, than being alone in one's righteousness?"

Blackwall was very quiet for a long time. Solas seemed content in his rhetorical victory, especially after Ixchel's contribution--which she still wasn't sure had been prudent of her. She felt quelled by her own words, and she thought ahead to her missions as Inquisitor and as a leader of many, one who would remake the world in her image...

"Do you think organizations are inherently corrupt, then?" Blackwall asked.

Solas saved her from answering immediately. "Given enough time, yes. To survive, an organization must devote resources to maintaining itself. Those resources inevitably accumulate until the original purpose, however pure, is all but lost."

"You make it sound like base survival. Like a mindless beast collecting a horde." Blackwall's face had become more reflective now, rather than dark, but Ixchel was listening with grim attention. 

"A beast," said Solas, "no matter how mindless, will die and give way to a successor. An organization is eternal. There are always corrupt men who hoard power for their own gain and there are always honorable men who hoard power to fight them."

Ixchel bowed her head. She was not there yet. The Inquisition was not there yet. "Then the inheritors must always be honorable men," she murmured, but she shook her head at herself.

"One can only hope, _lethallan_."

She sighed at the gentleness in his tone, though it made his words no less grave.

Finally, it seemed that Blackwall wanted to offer an olive branch. "For all your experience, Solas, you don't carry yourself like a soldier."

Ixchel looked up sharply in Solas's direction, for he had given such a dark chuckle in response. Yet he continued to stare up at the stars. "You should have seen me when I was younger. Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight."

Blackwall allowed a thin smile. "Ah, youth." He glanced at Ixchel. "Well, youth in men, perhaps."

She shrugged. 

Solas's jaw tightened and relaxed as he contemplated such matters. At last, he continued solemnly: "It is a delicate balance for those who fight. If they lack sufficient passion, they never become truly skilled, and die or leave the life."

"But too much passion, and they end up dead," Blackwall agreed. "Or monsters better off dead."

Solas made a low sound in his chest, and then he released it in a pensive sigh. Ixchel wondered which he thought he was now; it was clear what he sometimes thought he had been, in times long past.

"Yes," he said. "It is a rare soldier who can fight without letting it define him."

"Does being a warrior not define us?" Blackwall asked, frowning. "I may be a Warden, and our dear Inquisitor may be the Herald of Andraste--but our life is battle. That is what we have dedicated ourselves to, even more than most who pick up the blade."

"I mean only that one must not become a war hawk, fighting for the sake of bloodlust. It is true that you strengthen your body to deliver and withstand punishment, and the muscles are an enjoyable side benefit. I only hope that you have chosen a path that is more than merely swinging a sword--blood is the cost, not the purpose."

Ixchel snorted despite herself. "You find the muscles enjoyable?"

"I meant that you enjoyed having them, presumably."

Blackwall guffawed. "Ah, right."

But then Solas tilted his head back to look at Ixchel upside down from where he lay. She could only see the barest sliver of his sly smile, as he added, in a low purr, "But yes... since you asked."

Blackwall dissolved into a coughing fit and had to stand and take some paces to regain his composure. Ixchel chose not to back down, and she held his gaze impassively. The heat between them only increased, tense, daring, a taut moment of challenge. At last, he seemed to think better of himself, and he looked away.

She couldn't decide how that made her feel--and that made her insides twist. 


	35. Chapter 38 Excerpt

Ixchel was surprised when Solas returned to the camp and Cassandra asked, "Solas, what do you believe in?"

She was less surprised that Solas had an immediate answer. "Cause and effect," he said simply. "Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist."

Cassandra was taken aback. "That is not exactly what I meant."

Solas exhaled slowly and folded himself down on the ground between the Seeker and the Inquisitor. "I know. I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter. But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity." He spread his elegant hands in a gesture of open welcome. "I appreciate the idea of your Maker, a god that does not need to prove his power. I wish more such gods felt the same."

Cassandra gazed upon him with more open grief. "What gives you hope, then, Solas?"

Solas offered her a gentle smile, one that Ixchel could not help but treasuring. Then, he spoke, and his words were to Ixchel as much as they were to Cassandra. "I have _people_ , Seeker. The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people."

He did not turn his gaze upon Ixchel where she watched him, but with all her heart she wished him to know that she saw him, that she heard him. That all of her unending, hopeless, pointless love for him had been waiting for that moment--not even for her own sake. Not even for the _world's_. But for his own sake, she had hardly dared to hope he might ever say such a thing with such easy conviction. She hoped he truly did believe himself.

"How are you feeling, Seeker?" he asked her in turn.

"How do you expect I might feel?" Her face twisted, and she seemed on the verge of spitting. But she swallowed and continued quietly. "Most of my life was dedicated to the Order. I did so much I believed was good in their name."

"Now that you know them corrupt, you must determine which parts of yourself to discard and which to keep."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I assume you have advice?"

"I would hardly presume. In our travels, I have been impressed by your honesty and your faith. It is a difficult path, Seeker, but if anyone can walk it honorably, you can."

Cassandra clenched her fists suddenly. "Solas, my abilities as a Seeker... They came to me after a long vigil--one which I now know made me Tranquil, then attracted a Spirit of Faith to break it. They said my abilities were a gift from the Maker, a reward for my faith and dedication. But it was a trick, wasn't it? Is it my faith, or the faith of that...spirit...?"

Solas's eyebrows rose higher and higher as she spoke, and he shook his head vehemently when she trailed off, desperate and broken. "No, _no,_ Seeker. Do you know how rare Spirits of Faith are? How difficult it is to draw them to this world? You should be proud, having accomplished something so remarkable, not ashamed it was not what you thought."

Her eyes shone, and even at a distance Ixchel could see the Seeker tremble. "Thank you, Solas," Cassandra said. "That... does make me feel better."

Solas reached out a hand and laid it on the ground, but the gesture of comfort and solidarity remained. "Your faith does you credit, Cassandra. I hope your Maker is worthy."

"Told you so," Ixchel said gently. Her own throat was tight, and her own eyes burned with her own tears. When she looked at Cassandra, her eyes were not clouded with the doubts she felt about her own path, or guilt over the painful choices of her last life. Rather, all she saw was a woman she loved, a woman who hurt--a woman she could help.

Cassandra responded with a watery chuckle. "I am very lucky," she told them. "I am grateful to have met you both on this journey."


	36. Chapter 39 Excerpt

Ixchel wandered down to the rotunda late that evening and found Solas at work on his frescoes. Lately, he had been absorbed in research, and so his progress had slowed. But in just the few hours since their return, he had completed the panel of the formation of the Inquisiton and applied wet plaster to the panel that pertained to Redcliffe. He had shifted his scaffolding over to begin work at the top, on the sky.

Up on his high perch, she could not tell if he has noticed her arrival. She tried not to interrupt as she went over to his sofa and made herself comfortable to watch.

The wolf pelt she had given him as part of his new robes was draped across the arm of the sofa, and she drew if across her lap to keep her warm and to give her hands something to stroke while she observed him. The movement seemed to catch his attention, but he hardly paused for more than a moment.

"I wonder," he said, in such an even and conversational tone that she almost did not hear him at such a distance, "if I am drawn to you only in the same way that all the others are."

He was careful not to let his eyes fall to her at all, even as be bent to mix another color.

" _Fenedhis_ ," she muttered. Could she hide under this pelt...?

"My journeys have given me the privilege to witness many remarkable figures in the history of the world, and the loyalty they inspired in their followers. Yet only now do I see that I was wrong."

He fell silent for a long moment, and he considered the shade of green he had just applied. She had learned by now that the colors would change upon drying and that only because of his vast experience could he discern what the true shades would be before he applied them. A master of the craft, go be sure.

Seemingly satisfied, he continued to paint the swathe of sky. "I said that fear inspired the worship of mortals as gods. But perhaps, in rare cases, it is love instead."

Ixchel was frozen as he spoke, and in the wake of his words she was afraid to even breathe. How could he be so far away, how could he not even look upon her, and make her feel so _trapped?_

"Not their love for their gods--but their gods' love for them. The belief that their gods believe in them just as much as they believe in return." The soft bristles of his brush rasped against the plaster, and the softness of his breath came in time with each slow, deliberate stroke. "How Andrastians are so certain of the Maker's love, I do not know. I have not seen evidence. But, Ixchel, you have shown such faith--acted with so much love for your people...it is no _wonder_ you inspire such devotion."

The Inquisitor swallowed a lump in her throat.

"Solas," she said softly. "You're scaring me."

He still did not stop his work. His chin moved in her direction, an almost-turn, but he kept his eyes forward on his work. "I should," he said. His voice was low and utterly serious.

She did not have it within her to deny him, to protest. After all, she knew he was right.

 _I love you anyway,_ she thought with such strength it might manifest in the air between them--but it did not. _I love you. Is it_ your _devotion I have won? Will you stay?_

She did not lend voice to such thoughts. But she did not flee, either.

He continued his work in silence, and she watched him unflinchingly as he painted the Blighted future on the wall.

-:-:-:-:-

When Ixchel came up to her rooms and found Amarok there, lying at her bedside, she was tipsy enough to let decorum slip; she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his ruff. He was just as soft and warm as he was in her dreams, and it filled her with such comfort and joy she almost wept. He was not quite so large as he was in the Fade, but he was already as large as a mundane alpha wolf. 

She could not hear him here, in the material world. But when Cole peered up from below the other side of her bed, she laughed and beckoned him over to join their growing pile of warmth.

Cole rolled over the wolf's back and lay there, hardly a weight to him. The wolf nuzzled Ixchel and then rolled on to its side, releasing a wave of body heat that engulfed her. She curled there, reached for Cole with one hand.

"Bare-faced but free, frolicking fighting, fierce," Cole said, smiling up at the ceiling. "He wants to give wisdom, not orders."

Ixchel's fingers curled in Cole's thin, silky hair, and she was surprised at his warmth. "Who?"

He glanced at her with wide eyes. "Solas, of course."

She continued to stroke his hair while she pondered what Cole had just revealed to her.

"You make him feel like he did then," Cole said, "mostly in good ways. But even in the moments that hurt, you make him hope."

Ixchel buried her face in Amarok's shoulder, still without ceasing her gentle touch along Cole's scalp. "Thank you, Cole."

"I figured out how to help," he said breathlessly, beaming. "You were right, Amarok."

The wolf rumbled deep in its barrel chest.

-:-:-:-:-

Alexius stood before her, head bowed and chains rattling heavily as he settled into a defeated stance.

"Tevinter has disowned him and stripped him of his rank. You may judge the former Magister as you please."

Ixchel sat straight and proud on her throne. She did not look around at the gathered onlookers who tittered and held their breaths. She did not even look at Josephine. Dorian stood by, close and watchful and full of apprehension like the rest, but she kept her gaze firmly on Alexius.

"Your son is dead, and I imagine you do not care so much for your fate," she said quietly. "But I care for Felix's memory, and his memory of you."

She steepled her fingers in front of her and raised her voice. "This man once plotted for a brighter future for his home nation: one free of blood magic, of political systems designed to swaddle the privileged few and not the enslaved masses. One free of abject cruelty. He raised his son to dream of such a land. Alexius was a man who wished to shape the world, so can we blame him, for trying to do exactly that, in order to save his son from the Blight? I cannot blame such a great love. But I am reminded of the great suffering that had followed in its wake."

Ixchel looked out now at the Inquisition. "Let us all remember that even in our most shining aspirations, there may be even deeper shadows." She raised one hand to gesture at Alexius. "No one goal is so good as to let us forget our responsibility to the mortal lives we touch along the way. Be they Mage or not, human or elf, mortal or spirit--we must do good by all of them. A better world for one individual, or even one nation, that is not a better world for all cannot be our goal! Let me remind you, then, Alexius, of the inherent worth of every such being. You will spend your days working alongside our Tranquil Mages, researching theoretical magicks and helping us find ways to better the world. You will serve in Felix's memory, and I hope you find some comfort in working alongside such honest folk for such honest a purpose--if not now, then someday."

She lowered her hand, having spoken with utter finality. Her soldiers began taking the silent magister away. 


	37. Chapter 40 Excerpt

Ixchel was far too pleased with herself to see her companions wearing the gifts she had gotten them.

Solas wore the robes she had made for him over his armor, which she noticed he had replaced on his own. Instead of the light armor favored by the Inquisiton mages and Dorian and Vivienne, he had found or somehow obtained something sturdier, as that a warrior might select. He wore a heavy gorget that, if she had to guess from color alone, was made of paragon's luster, and a thick leather cuirass that seemed like wyvern skin. She was highly suspicious of its origin, and she was also suspicious of what had prompted a shift in his needs that he would seek such armor out. She couldn't rightly question him, however, because they _were_ going into territory where they knew smugglers, deserters, and giants roamed, among other dangers. And besides...paired with the thick vest and overcoat she had made him, he looked too good.

-:-:-:-:-

Before she left the refugee camp, she wandered through it with her companions. She introduced herself to the various families and inquired as to their needs and concerns. She noticed the familiar tingle of Elvhen magic and with Solas's help uncovered a veilfire glyph for study.

"Even with thousands of gallons of water falling on it for centuries, the wolf statue remains intact," Cassandra observed of the falls. "Magic, perhaps?"

"Ancient magicks wove together with the fabric of the universe and created beautiful harmonies that could last thousands of years," Solas replied. "Perhaps some of that knowledge survived to the foundation of the Dales."

Ixchel sighed. "Certainly, little of it survived the Exalted March that followed."

-:-:-:-:-

When she returned to their own camp, Cassandra had already retired to the tent she shared with Ixchel, and Solas was up on watch.

She sat beside him and began undoing the buckles of her armor. "Did you know that most Dalish are named after Emerald Knights?" she asked him.

He shook his head slowly, and she paused in her work, surprised. "The vow of the Dales is...the vow of the Dales. The elves of Halamshiral were perhaps the last with any connection to the Elvhen, if what you said about the magic here is true. The last Emerald Knights scattered to the winds to ensure that whatever they carried with them in their blood and in their souls would not be lost to Orlais with everything else." She looked down and resumed taking off her gauntlets. "Ralaferin, Mahariel, Talas... These are names you'll find here, beneath the mightiest trees. Their names, their promises, and our promises, are all that remain of the Elvhen."

Solas was quiet as she continued to remove her armor. She worked slowy and tried to keep from making much noise both out of respect for Cassandra's sleep as well as out of an abundance of caution in the night. She had only just finished removing the last of her plate armor when Solas spoke.

"And there is promise in you, isn't there." His voice was thoughtful, but what those thoughts were, he did not share them with her.

"Promises and faith," she murmured, and they sat in meditative silence until it was time to wake Cassandra and Cole for their watches.


	38. Chapter 40 Excerpt

She was expecting to be so exhausted as to have a dreamless sleep, but she was surprised to find that not only did she lucidly dream--she was not alone, either.

For accompanying Amarok was another wolf.

Ixchel couldn't help her feeling of utter betrayal at Amarok's presumptuous allowance. She was penned in on all sides by wolves: the Knight's Guardian perched cool and tall behind her back, Amarok to her left, and Solas to her right. The three-way mirror of these wolves, each one shade more pale than the other, would have been almost amusing if she were not nearly infuriated by it.

"Hush, Champion," Amarok said reprovingly. "None of us alone are strong enough to protect you this night." His ears flattened at the admission, and his growl reverberated around her in the fabric of the Fade. "The Elder One's servants would chase you like the hounds of the Dales. We cannot let them find you."

The white wolf sprang to his feet in a motion so fluid that he seemed as though he were liquid pouring across rocks and reforming at the bottom. As Amarok threw back his head to unleash a howl that might wake the dead, Ixchel saw the danger approaching in the valley: between the trees loped a dark army of plumed Chevaliers, and prowling at their sides were monstrous shadows each with six red eyes.

Amarok turned to face the Nightmare's army. Then, Ixchel turned, and Solas turned, and just as she so often had in the years after the Exalted Council, she chased Fen'Harel through the Emerald Graves. She tried not to think of such times. She tried not to hear her frantic voice crying for him as he fled; she could not allow herself to hear her wrathful demands as she stood and stared him down and shamed him for running from her. Yet the Nightmare's influence spread even ahead of its vanguard of fearlings, and the poisoned grief slowed her as she ran.

Solas was doing a remarkable job maintaining his facade as a silent wolf spirit. But the wind whispered in his wake, and where his paws fell, Spirits rose to aide them.

She passed Valor, righteous Wrath, towering Endurance--each so similar in shape and might to the powerful Spirits who had guarded Fen"Harel's refuge as Sentinels. She wove between their ranks and pushed on through the trees for what felt like many hours until it became almost a trance. She was a beating heart and pounding feet and the moving trees. 

The very same trees began to shiver as though in a high wind. For the first time since he began running from her, Solas looked back at her in concern.

Her hold was slipping.

She had no time for thought, no room for anything except feeling. She was wind in her hair and grass fresh and cool under her feet. She was adrenaline and she was--she was--

The grass vanished abruptly. They had circled back around and were suddenly facing down the army. Above them they brought a Blighted sky.

"There you are, _da'len_ ," the Nightmare crowed.

Solas turned to her, his paws slipping on wet stone as her dream began to flood. He lunged for her, and as he leaped, his form blew back like smoke until he was but a man reaching for her.

The ground gave way beneath her feet, and Ixchel fell into the Buried Sea before she could grasp his hand.

Ixchel didn't know how long she drowned in the blackness, screaming, but she was aware of the Nightmare all around her, sucking her dry of voice and breath and fears. With every memory it tore from her, she felt another dagger in her breast--and a new fear entered her, then: that she would be Dream-Slain here in the flooded dark--

Her lungs burned, everything hurt. But she needed to hurt if she were to remain un-Tranquil. The pain was all she had to cling to, and that was a fear on its own, but she had to use what she had left--and there wasn't much. So in the dark she summoned the worst phantom of that pain. It was the pain of the Veil as it tugged toward her and pulled at her, as the magic in her arm came into discordant resonance with the magic of the Veil and tried to puncture it in a way no mortal frame could withstand.

She detonated the Anchor and tore herself from the Nightmare's realm.


	39. Chapter 40 Excerpt

Ixchel woke flailing against a full-body restraint. Solas was completely on top of her, his hands digging into her arm as he tried to siphon magic out of the Anchor in spite of her thrashing. She screamed despite herself and found her throat raw and voice hoarse as though she had been screaming for hours--but as Cassandra pleaded to her, she surfaced from the last clutches of the Nightmare and fell limp.

Solas bowed over her, seemingly just as spent.

Cole was whispering softly over Cassandra's shoulder. "Things are connected, tied in a tangle. Fixing one thing might break something else," he said so apologetically to Ixchel. "Amarok didn't know. I should have been there."

Ixchel brought her free hand up and pressed it against Solas's shoulder blades. She could feel his heart racing even through his back, as though he had just run a long distance. His face was buried in her neck now that the Anchor was not flaring so painfully in her arm. It beat with a pulse that was out of time with her own--a pulse she felt beneath her hand.

She tried to remember what had brought her here, what ghosts had haunted her so badly, but she could not. She could not identify what had been stolen from her, but the shape of the fear was familiar enough.

"Fuck," she rasped, and fisted her hand in Solas's shirt. "He got me."

"Who?" Cassandra asked.

"The Elder One has enlisted a powerful demon to hunt his enemies," Cole said in a mournful tone. "The Nightmare. You've been undoing so much of their work, it had to come itself."

Solas stirred on her shoulder, but she tightened her grip thoughtlessly, desperate to keep him close. He sighed in her ear.

He pulled away just enough that he had her caged in his arms. " _Lethallan_ ," he murmured, "if this is true, I think it would be safest if you slept without dreaming for a while."

She blinked up at him in the dark and realized then that she had been crying. More tears rolled down the sides of her face as she stared up at him and nodded.

"Seeker. Cole. I will stay and tend to the Inquisitor. You should complete your watch--we still have many hours to sunrise."

Ixchel shuddered beneath him.

"We'll talk in the morning," Cassandra replied in a shaky voice, and she reluctantly left the tent. Cole followed, his hat low over his eyes, and left Ixchel in Solas's arms.

He surprised her then by leaning forward and pressing his forehead to hers, their noses touching, intimately communicating his concern.

"I'm alright for now," she found herself whispering against his lips.

His breath was hot on her skin, and the adrenaline that had not left her after the nightmares now found another focus. In the dark, she was hyperaware of his body hovering over hers. She could feel every flicker of his lashes stir air across her cheek.

They lay there, breathing with each other, until both of them had regained control over their racing hearts.

"I should...fetch the herbs," he murmured. She nodded again, and in doing so raked her nose along his cheek. He sighed again. "Ixchel..."

"Go, then," she replied.

For a moment, he seemed like he might not. But then he drew his knee up and levered himself off of her. In the absence of his warmth she curled in on herself and buried herself beneath her blankets as though to hide. It was his hand, gentle upon her head, that stirred her out again.

"Here."

He pulled aside the blanket, but when she raised her face to him she found him too close. She blinked at the shadow of his face against the dark backdrop of the tent for a moment, and then she reached for him. He let her circle her arms around his neck and guide him closer.

"Stay."

It was hardly a whisper, and not quite a sigh. But it hung between them heady and unabashed, and he acknowledged it by gently pressing his lips to her forehead. "As you wish," he replied.

He drew back her blankets and settled beside her on her bedroll. With strength that was not betrayed at all by his wiry form, he shifted her around until she was tucked against his side, her cheek on the dip between his shoulder and his chest. With one arm he cradled her back, and the other he brought up to her hand as it rested over his heart.

He pressed something into her palm.

"Chew this until it releases its juices," he said. "You may not like it."

She raised her hand to her lips, but before she could put the herbs to her mouth his nimble fingers caught her chin. She looked up at him sleepily.

"If you cannot have sweet dreams...then perhaps..."

Solas dipped closer to slant his mouth against hers. She was pliant and content in his arms as he kissed her. He did not push; there was no sense of urgency in his gift to her. He kissed her, sweet and chaste, and when he withdrew he kissed both of her eyelids, then Dirthamen's crown on her forehead. "Rest," his lips traced against her skin.

 _Ar lath ma_ , she heard so clearly in his tone. _Ar lath ma_ , she wished so dearly that he knew.

She said nothing more before she put the bitter herbs in her mouth and settled back in his arms to sleep, but not to dream.


	40. Chapter 41 Excerpt

Ixchel woke so slowly it was as though she were pulling her mind out of the mire. It was even worse than waking up after the fall of Haven; although she did not ache, she was numb, and she was awake enough to know she was awake but could not fathom how to finish the process herself. The feeling brought panic with it, but then her awareness rose further.

Solas had stayed. His breath against her forehead was even and untroubled in his sleep; he still lay beneath her, arm looped behind her shoulders. A hand was clasped with hers over his sternum, while the other lay across the back of her neck, warm and heavy beneath her hair. One of her legs was drawn up and crooked over his hip, locking them together; they were inextricably entwined in every sense. Ixchel cataloged each sensation and found herself calming.

Her mouth tasted like nugshit, which was a bummer.

She tried to ignore that and focused on everything else that was so precious about this moment, while she tried to regain full control of her faculties. There were so many things she wanted to do the moment she could move again. She wanted to burrow closer, press her face into his neck and breathe him in. She wanted to tilt her chin up and meet his lips to wake him as sweetly as he had sent her off to sleep. But she was so aware, so afraid, that any movement might send him running—and she had just done _so_ much running.

She only managed to carefully lace their fingers together on his chest, over his heart.

It seemed to wake him—though perhaps he, too, had been awake as she had. His thumb swept over the back of her hand in precious acknowledgment.

 _"On dhea,"_ he murmured into her hair.

"I can't remember what it took from me," she whispered, then kicked herself, because _why couldn't she just enjoy_ the fact that he held her, that he wasn't untangling himself from her as quickly as possible? That he actually seemed to be _letting_ himself enjoy this moment?

His fingers at the back of her neck tightened slightly. "It took something?"

"It..."

She had no way to articulate what the Nightmare intended. In her last life, it had stolen her memories of what happened to the Divine, and it had hidden Corypheus's identity and the Wardens' involvement from her for strategic purposes. The information—and the fact that she had even lost her memory of that experience—had only come to the fore when she fell into its realm in the Fade at Adamant. Now there was a new question of what it could have taken from her, and why.

Her fingers tightened in Solas's shirt.

She had so much dangerous foreknowledge. Things she had was afraid of coming to fruition, as well as sequences of events she knew she _must_ follow. But what was missing?

She closed her eyes again and tried to keep her breathing even. From Halamshiral to Adamant to the Arbor Wilds to the final closing of the Breach—she needed to remember, find the holes in her memory. Had the Nightmare gained some tactical advantage over her?

There— _there_ they were, some holes. She could guess them by their absence; she was smart enough for that. But like a spider's venom, her mind was numb around the edges of the wounds. Grasping felt like trying to catch water in her fists, or trying to weave together a previous night's events while still in a drunken stupor.

The first hole: standing over the pile of ashes where Corypheus had been a moment before, then being lifted on Bull's shoulders. Something important was missing in-between, something shaped like Solas ripping her heart out of her chest. She remembered that she should have been happy but she wasn't, and she wasn't for a long time. She couldn't remember the _leaving_ , but she remembered that he'd _left_ —but there was something else there that she couldn't grasp.

Something that might be the key to making him stay.

"It was finding what I'm afraid of," she whispered.

"Like the Deep Roads?"

She wracked her memory for, but there was only cold and empty darkness and the soft refrain: _'...still a Shaper...'_

The more she tried to think, the more empty she felt there. All she could grasp was the distant crackle of explosives. She had found such horrors there, but the fear of their shadows in deeper darknesses was all that remained.

“It’s terrifying, knowing I’m so scared of them—but not remembering why, or what they were,” she said, voice cracking desperately.

But _why_ had it taken such things? Even back then, the Nightmare had not needed to steal anything from her in order to know her fears; it had been able to harass each of her companions as though it had known the darkest shadows of their minds by virtue of their presence in its domain. There could only be one answer then, for the Nightmare didn't take something that could be used to help Corypheus. _No_. It couldn't resist taking the crux of her deepest fears to chew on—something whose _absence_ would haunt and hurt her just as much as when she held it knowingly.

It was a hungry, base beast, and she would make it pay for its sadistic greed.

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and angry. "It just wants to torment me," she croaked.

"Whatever this Nightmare thinks it could turn against you, I _know_ that you are stronger," he replied soothingly, and he squeezed her a little with the arm he had wrapped around her shoulders. “And it will not haunt you again.”

Ixchel pressed her damp eyes into his shirt and tried to catch her breath. She was caught off-guard by her anger, and she tried to take charge of her mood and move on once more:

"Solas... What are you afraid of?"

He began to card his fingers through her hair, down the nape of her neck to her shoulders, and then he drew a heady breath and seemed to swallow many words before selecting the right ones. Each slipped out one-by-one as if he still weren't sure they were correct: "That this world might prove irredeemable in the end."

She settled closer to him with a shiver, because she felt the shape of that fear, too, like a wound, but it had not left her. It must have been to big, too entrenched, to steal from her. It still beat with a sickly pulse in the back of her mind:

_Futile._

"Me too," she admitted, though her voice nearly failed her.

He hummed deep in his chest. "I know," he said, and the familiar note of regret struck a painful chord in her. "This world’s creator must be cruel indeed, to allow the world to test your remarkable faith so constantly... _Ir abelas, Ixchel."_

She looked up at him searchingly and was met once again with the guilt and grief of a god. He looked away, moving his chin as though to hide in his shoulder.

But Ixchel would not let him run from this. He could not know just how much of her torment he was responsible for, Nightmare not withstanding. And she deserved better than his guilt.

She raised the hand that held the Anchor to his face. She felt the lines of his jaw, followed its flow to the swell of his cheek, then traced the same arch out to the tip of his ear. Then, she settled her hand against the back of his neck, warm and secure. His breaths had deepened as caressed him, eyes closed while he reveled in her touch—

And when her hand ceased its wandering, he opened his eyes and fixed them on her, gray like a storm on the approach. He studied her, searched her gaze for something; what he found brought only the smallest change to his face, but she saw it, and she held her breath.

"You inspire me," he told her. " _Rogasha'ghi'lan_... It is a worthy path you have led me down. It is difficult to see you hurting for it."

Her heart swelled in her chest 'til it pressed tight against her ribs. She stretched herself to meet him and he bent toward her.

Then the both of them pulled back with grimaces on their faces.

Ixchel rolled over to spit out the herbs that still clung to the inside of her cheek, and Solas chuckled to himself as she reached for her canteen of water. She resorted to sitting up on her knees to drink deeply of it, while he lay back and watched her.

“Sorry,” she coughed.

His lips quirked in response, but no more. As she looked down at him and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and it was her turn to search for something in his face. He let her look, unabashed and unwavering as he gazed up at her in the murk of the tent.

She knew what love looked like in his eyes, and grief. She did not find either at the moment, and neither did she find certainty. Solas might have seemed less weary, and somewhat more content, than usual, but she could not tell if he would pull away again. If he were to rethink this latest crossed-boundary and try to pull back—if he tried to convince himself that he had gone too far in offering her comfort… She didn’t know if her heart could take it.

 _Ar lath ma,_ her heart beat in her throat, but she swallowed the confession and chased it with more water. She wanted him to make promises. She wanted him to be explicit. She _wanted_ something she could cling to instead of slippery moments that could be thought of as mistakes. Nothing else would suffice, and nothing else could distract her from her duty.

For Ixchel loved him, that much was true…but she _needed_ to stop him from ending the world in blood and fire, and that was true whether he loved her or not. She already knew that such love was not the key to swaying him from his _din'an'shiral_ —in fact, it could be less a tool than a liability. And she remembered Cole's grim proclamation: _the next time you imagine him touching you, someone you love will die._

It did not matter what the Nightmare had taken. She knew she needed Solas to trust her. She knew she needed Solas to have hope for this world, as it was, and not as it could have been without his terrible mistakes. She needed him to see new life, not ghosts all around him.

“I have a world to save,” she said quietly.

“And I am keeping you from doing so?”

“No.” She leveled a weary stare upon him. “I just don’t have it in me to chase you, Solas,” she told him slowly, softly.

A thoughtful look crossed Solas’s face, and he sat up. Even on her knees, they were face-to-face, and she longed to close the distance and kiss him again. Maybe he would even allow her to do so. But she did not want him to _allow_ her to kiss him.

So she instead raised a hand to the side of his neck and stroked the soft skin there, felt the heightened pace of his pulse. He clasped her hand lightly, likewise feeling the beat in her wrist. They observed each other closely for a moment longer.

But Solas did not kiss her again.

Ixchel sat back on her heels and pushed herself away to begin her daily preparations. With her back to him, she found that she held her breath. She felt every move he made, as he gathered himself and his belongings in silence. He did not draw closer to her even once.

Ixchel swallowed her grief. She took a deep breath that caught painfully in her throat, but he still did not come to her.

It was almost a relief when he left the tent at last.

-:-:-:-:-

"Solas said there is a way to make sure you do not dream?" Cass asked, frowning. "I was not aware there were herbs that could produce such an effect.”

The mage in question ducked out from his tent just in time to chime in. "Indeed, the herbs sever one’s connection to the Fade when one sleeps. Unfortunately, I do not think this is a long-term solution.”

He joined them by the dwindling fire and sat opposite from Ixchel. She tried to keep her face carefully composed as she looked at him—seeking information only, nothing more

“As you can imagine, for something to be so akin to Tranquility, there are significant negative consequences to extended use." He extended a hand to her apologetically. “The mind heals when it wanders the Fade, as does the body when the mind leaves it for a time. Long term, dreamlessness can cause weakness and chronic fatigue.”

"The one individual whose Tranquility has been reversed...suffered greatly," Cassandra said in a bitter tone. "To undergo that _every_ morning?"

"Indeed. One risks low or volatile moods as well. But it is unlikely you would rest much better in the clutches of the Nightmare, however. This way, at least, you might not suffer the additional torment of such a sadistic creature."

"Or lose valuable tactical information to it, should it stop being greedy and start playing smart," she pointed out.

"We must put a stop to it," Cassandra insisted. "For your sake, Inquisitor."

The young woman gave a short laugh. "Cassandra, if you have some way of going into the Fade to wage war with it, be my guest."

Cassandra frowned thoughtfully, then jumped as Cole appeared on her other side. "Maker's breath—”

"Amarok escaped," he told them. "He's too young, and the Nightmare is too big, too old. You can't run from it—you have to hide. But Amarok didn't know." He looked down at his hands. “I should have told him.”

Ixchel reached for him and clutched one of his hands tightly. “It’s okay,” she told him. “It would have found me sooner or later.”

Solas's eyes slid back to catch Ixchel's. "In the long term, there may be ways of building your defenses, creating a maze to trap any Fade walker before they got close enough to do harm. But it would require vigorous meditation during your waking hours, and unthreatened practice while you dreamed.”

"So, after Corypheus has stopped setting his Nightmare on me personally," Ixchel guessed. "In the meantime, then, our focus remains the same. I should hope you all could handle me when I'm a little crabby."


	41. Chapter 42 Excerpt

Ixchel did not look at Solas before she turned and hurried after Taven. They passed through the first set of heavy stone doors and into a ruined courtyard, where the Dalish had been excavating already.

“Have you ever set foot in such a place, _arani_?” the Dalish First asked when she rejoined him in the second level of the courtyard. He stood even taller here, planted with his staff. It seemed that more than the sun warmed him.

She smiled a little but did not answer.

"We have done some research here already,” he said. “There does not seem to be much on the outside: statues of Emerald Knights and their wolves, but very little by way of art or history. The knots in the architecture place its construction early in the Dalish kingdom, but that is not so illuminating. Some textiles remain, but their patterning and knit are likewise not novel to us.”

Taven led her deeper into the tomb, into a place where even the sunlight seemed burnished with age, and the shadows darkened with age. His people had already lit many torches in the area. “There is a larger inner sanctum that holds more surprises. It seemed overgrown at first, but I believe if you look closer, it’s more apparent that some magic coaxed the vegetation into the foundation in a sort of symbiosis”

Ixchel glanced at Solas briefly, but he had only pressed his lips into a slightly tighter line than normal. “And what purpose do you believe this place served?” she asked.

“A fortress of the Emerald Knights—and their honored resting place,” Taven replied. “There are a few collapsed walls that lead into catacombs, but thus far we have only found bones without identification. Likely they were footsoldiers. There is a door we cannot open that I believe may be where the most respected Knights were laid.”

They reached the greener chambers, and Ixchel breathed deeply of the ancient air. The last time she had been here, it had been thick with tainted lyrium and blood magic.

“We’ve found a few wall depictions similar to those Clan Sabrae has documented in Ferelden.”

“Taven!”

The trio turned as a young hunter approached. “I translated the engraving outside.”

Taven nodded regally. “Let’s hear it, _lethallin_.”

_“‘Curse the past—the place where lies were born. For beneath their sun, our people fall. The lands their lady once bestowed now stolen in her name. So when these words are read, we shall be gone.’”_

The young elf’s smile was jarring against the grim words they had brought. It faded when Taven did not immediately praise their translation. “It’s about the Exalted March,” they added eventually.

Ixchel did her very best to keep her features schooled, but from the nervous look of the hunter, she did not succeed. She turned back to Taven pointedly. “What do you hope to find here?” she asked. “I said we’d help you investigate. Is there any particular area you’d like us to focus on? Solas is an incredible mage and scholar. I’m a bit of a thug, but I’m good at sniffing out hidden chambers and such.”

Taven considered her offer. “There are sconces in some of the catacombs that no flint will light. I know it is magic, perhaps a puzzle of some kind.”

“Ah! Veilfire!” Ixchel beamed at him, then looked up at Solas expectantly. “We’ve encountered plenty before.”

He raised his eyebrows at her and was silent for just long enough for her brow to pinch—and then he bowed his head to Taven. “It would be right for a Dalish First to learn what the Fade-remembered flames can reveal. We have found messages and magical secrets hidden from all but this light.”

Taven’s shoulders finally relaxed a little. “I would be honored if you taught me."

-:-:-:-:-

Their exploration of the Hallowed Tombs took most of the afternoon. Taven’s scouts finished translating the dire messages left beneath the monuments to the Emerald Knights, and Taven himself kept occupied in the crypts, scouring every surface with Veilfire. He discovered that the remains _were_ labeled with the names of the fallen soldiers, as well as epitaphs such as one for Andrale:

_Frail, faltering in the darkness._   
_Though imperfect, her voice a balm._   
_Andrale, Falon’Din enasal enaste._

He surmised that they were troops captained by the Knights who were remembered in each chamber's epitaph. If so, they had commanded great numbers.

For their part, Ixchel and Solas walked more purposefully through the dark halls. Solas discovered another Elvhen artifact to strengthen the Veil, and Ixchel searched for the shards of the Emerald Seal that would open the final chamber. She was still missing a few pieces when she came across a young Dalish mage examining a veilfire epitaph with wide, but unseeing eyes.

“This is _my_ name,” she said. “Talim.”

“Then you are part of a legacy of guardians,” Ixchel told her. “As are we all. You have done that legacy an honor, learning of these secrets.”

Talim reached out and ran her fingers delicately over the surface of the runes. “I wish we could do more,” she said sadly. “I wish I could take this whole place in our aravel…keep it safe, keep it ours.”

Ixchel swallowed. “One day, it could be. Or,” she said, and she pressed one hand over her heart, “one day, you could build something from the memory you carry in here.”

She found Solas standing in the archway behind her when she turned, watching her.

 _“G’on?”_ she asked.

 _“Ga son,”_ he replied. “You are so remarkably…consistent.”

“I am _me_. What else is there to be?”

He chuckled and took a step back to allow her to slip past him in the tunnel. “I am trying to imagine what this place must have been like in the early days of the Dalish kingdom.” His voice followed her, echoing off the walls until it passed her and reached the end. “It could not _all_ have been a tomb. There are likely ritual chambers, barracks, places of contemplation… A training yard for the warriors and parade grounds to assemble their armies upon. Not so different from Skyhold.”

Ixchel considered this as she climbed up a ruined wall and returned to the main level. “I believe all that tells us is war is a constant of mortal life,” she said blandly when he’d joined her. “The architecture is different, they are separated by ages, but the same needs were met in their form and function."


	42. Chapter 43 Excerpt

Her knees still shook when she managed to get to her feet, and she wobbled in the direction of the inner courtyard. By the time she had reached the Hallowed Tombs, she had managed to regain most of her coordination—but her mental faculties felt as clumsy and circular as ever. She passed the statue of Mythal and gave it a grudging glance; once again, she noticed that there was a _sudden tree_ growing out of the chamber below the statue, where just a day before she was certain there had been nothing. She had the urge to spit on it just to make a statement, but she restrained herself. She did pause, however, and closed her eyes in contemplation, but she felt no trace of the magic that had woken her and called to her in the night.

She did, however, hear plenty of shouting coming from within the Knight’s Tomb.

Ixchel sighed and pressed on. Blackwall stood awkwardly at the entrance to the Knights’ Tomb, apparently fully preoccupied with not looking inside at the argument. He seemed exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable in such a hallowed Dalish fortress; when he noticed Ixchel approaching, he relaxed only a little. “Best get in there before someone gets hurt,” he rumbled.

Ixchel sighed, squared her shoulders, and strode in.

“Shut up!” she said loudly. Her words were drowned out by the shouting, so as she drew closer, she squeezed her eyes shut and shouted: “Everyone be _quiet!”_

In the silence that followed, her voice and footsteps echoed around the empty hall. She stormed forward. “Are you trying to raise the dead twice over?” she demanded in a lower voice. “I hope this trial run of ‘Inquisitor’s Day Off’ hasn’t ended all your friendships, because that’s certainly what it _sounds_ like.”

The three of her companions rounded on her in a suddenly unified front. “What happened?” Cassandra demanded. “You left the camp without anyone noticing!”

“Taven said that you fought an entire battalion’s worth of corpses, and a Revenant no less!” Dorian added. “I respect your martial prowess, but _that_ is frankly unbelievable.”

Solas’s face was white with fury, but before he could say anything, Ixchel held out her hands. “Stop it. Stop. It.” She stared them down until she saw at least Cassandra’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension. “We will respect this place and discuss things rationally. The last of the Emerald Knights deserve that much.”

“The Seeker worries that you might be possessed,” Solas said tersely.

“Well, I don’t think I am,” Ixchel said with a frown. “I woke up and I knew I just had to be here. And then I was, and Talim was about to get decapitated so I just fought until I dropped. I don’t know.” She held out her hands again. “I don’t know! It felt like…like…” She floundered as she tried to dig back into that feeling. Ixchel could hardly explain it to herself. _Why_ did she feel so strange when Amund touched her in the Forbidden Mire? _What_ did she feel between her and Amarok?

Cole appeared behind Cassandra, perched at the foot of the strange idol that overlooked the Knights’ Tomb. “We’ve _told_ you,” he said insistently. “You chose, you named yourself, you promised. You are _theirs_.”

Everyone turned to stare at him. Then, they turned back to stare at Ixchel.

“I’m just as confused,” she assured them. When they each seemed frustrated with her, Ixchel shrugged. “Look, frankly, if I told you Andraste called to me in the night and told me someone was in trouble, would _that_ satisfy you?”

“No,” Dorian sad flatly. “But perhaps the Seeker?”

Cassandra snorted fitfully but did not deny it. “But we cannot rule out that a spirit did not reach you,” she said pointedly. “Even my abilities, which I believed came from the Maker, came from a spirit of the Fade.”

“Which she is currently _disconnected_ _from_ ,” Solas protested.

“Maybe I just _know_ when my people are in danger,” Ixchel said. She shrugged again. “How _did_ I end up with this magic in my arm? How _did_ I survive the avalanche at Haven? How _did_ I travel through time?” She began to skirt them, going to approach a sarcophagus. “Sheer force of will, bad luck, and a lot of other people meddling. Who’s to say which one was at play here? Not I.”

Cole cocked his head. “Well, it’s not _bad_ luck,” he said. “You’re alive, and Talim is alive.”

Ixchel pointed a him. “See!”

“Then it could be meddling, and we don’t know who is doing it,” Dorian said. He approached her, grabbed her shoulders, and spun her around to look up at the strange, ugly idol. “This seems incongruous with the rest of the idols and architecture, no? The winged victory of Mythal and her bow-necked dragons, the wolves, the fetishes… None look like this ominous, ugly… _thing_.”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes at it for study. “Do _you_ know what it looks like?” she asked him. “Is that why you’re suspicious?”

“No,” he said behind her.

“Yeah, neither do I. It _is_ ugly, though.” She waited a moment to see if she’d be struck down, but she was not. Ixchel crossed her arms over her chest, then hissed when it strained a sore muscle in her shoulder. “Look, I don’t know. I just don’t _know_. Shouting about it won’t illuminate anything new, but maybe looking around calmly will. And barring that, maybe we should just accept the fact that whatever caused it, I was in the right place at the right time to save a life, and that is a _good_ thing.”

Solas made a harsh sound. “If you are under the geas of anything, it should be broken. For now, it compelled you to do something within your moral bounds, but—”

Ixchel ignored him as she stared up at the idol with narrowed eyes and thought of a similar conversation she’d had with Morrigan several times over. First, arguing against Morrigan drinking from the Well—then, after discovering that it was Morrigan’s dreaded mother who held the will of Mythal… In the end, however, it had only ever been a boon. Flemeth and Mythal were both mothers to the end, and they had given their daughter the gift of freedom, even under the yoke of a supposed geas—but Ixchel _hadn’t_ really known how that worked out, in the end, did she? Because she hadn’t _been_ there at the end—

“Well then,” she said coldly to Solas, “what do you propose?”

He fell silent.

“Then we search. We will dine with the Dalish, and then regroup with our scouts and head out to the Emprise as we had planned.” She turned, arms still crossed, and stretched her neck until it cracked on both sides. “Don’t make me order you.”

Her companions glared at her, and she glared back.

“Be that way,” she snapped.


	43. Chapter 43 Excerpt

When at last her companions seemed to have chased down all their leads into dead ends, they returned to her side, and she and Taven called all the Dalish to join them for an early lunch. She was aware of her companions—even Solas—looking to her for what was customary in such a situation, but rather than warm her or make her feel more confident, suddenly she felt much as she had when she first joined the Lavellan Clan: like she was putting on a culture as performance.

She tried to swallow that and remind herself of Ter’s words to her. To the rest of the world she was Dalish because of her blood and her body. To Clan Lavellan, she was one of their own, too. And she was doing her best.

“Usually we share stories of our people at the end of the day, to meditate upon as we rest,” Taven said, “but because you must leave so soon, the Inquisitor asked that we share the tale of Red Crossing, and the death of Elandrin that set off the Exalted March that ruined the Dales.”

Ixchel watched her human companions intently as Taven read first from the scroll written by the last Emerald Knights, and then from the letter from Elandrin to Adalene. Cassandra had already been primed for such a revelation, after all that she had learned about her own order. Her reaction was no less interesting to Ixcehl, however; while it was clear that the Seeker reflected deeply and solemnly on the events, there was no denying its romance and tragedy, and Ixchel assigned the misty eyes she saw to that. Dorian and Blackwall were each clearly cowed by the revelations. By the end of it, Dorian was frowning contemplatively at his hands, and Blackwall had picked a small white daisy from the grass beside him, which he spun slowly between his large fingers.

Taven finished, and he carefully returned the scroll and letter to their ivory case. He let the silence sit heavy on their shoulders for a moment before continuing. “In a short time, our sister Lavellan has shared a great deal of wisdom,” he said. “I would have us reflect on something she discussed this morning: sometimes, mediators are necessary—to maintain peace, or to confront cruelties witnessed in the world. But from this account, I cannot place the blame on Elandrin or Adalene for the Exalted March of the Dales. There is no evidence to show whether they did or did not try to address the tensions between their peoples or within their respective communities. And I cannot blame them if they did _not_ try, if they were in an environment where they might be certain to be rebuffed.” He turned the cylindrical case over in his hands, and then he gestured around at them all. “We must all then remember: when we are not mediators, we must look for those who are, and heed them.”

A small smirk quirked Ixchel’s lips. “You never know if you might be the quarreling Anaris and Andruil, who both overlooked Fen’Harel, or if you are the the children saved by the Dread Wolf’s slow arrow,” she added, which earned her a spatter of laughter from the Dalish. “Thank you, my friends. Please bring this news and my greetings to Clan Feratherien. _Dar’eth shiral.”_


	44. Chapter 45 Excerpt

“We’re not done,” Ixchel panted. “We can’t call it a night until—”

“We cannot continue like this!” Dorian interrupted. “ _You_ can’t! Every time you close a rift, you nearly fall over from the effort. The wind is picking up and there is _ice_ in your _hair_. We must head back to camp.”

Ixchel, doubled-over as she was with her hands on her knees, raised her head enough to glare at him in the evening murk. “I know we are almost there,” she insisted. “There is but one more.”

“You are being stubborn and foolish,” Cassandra said viciously. “I should know.”

The Inquisitor drew herself upright and adjusted her grip on her weapon. Her gauntlets had been slick with warm demon ichor, but it seemed to have frozen; each movement cracked the ice loudly. She knew her companions were not asking for anything unreasonable, but she was determined—almost desperate—to close the last rift beyond Valeska’s Watch. If she could simply do that, then they would have cleared a route for the townsfolk to escape. And her own party would have a clear route back to the initial Inquisition forward camp, if they could simply loop around—

She set her jaw and began stomping off through the snow again.

 _“Festis bei umo canavarum!”_ Dorian shouted into the wind behind her.

Solas made long strides to catch up with her. She turned her head partly to glare at him and partly to shield her face from the worst of the wind. “Going to lecture me, _hahren?”_ she asked. _“Vara u’em.”_

“The dreamless sleep has made you _dahn’direlan,_ ” he replied. “I could not stop you. But I will catch you when you fall, _rogasha'ghi'lan.”_

Ixchel winced at a particularly cold gust of wind came whistling down from the pass ahead. “That sounded far less condescending the last time you said it.”

Solas chuckled. “Here.” He tugged at the fabric wrapped around his midsection and drew closer to wrap it around her neck and head, then secured it over her mouth and nose. The fabric was warm and smelled strongly of him; it made her realize how badly frozen her cheeks were, as it was almost painful against her skin.

 _“Enaste,”_ she said, but it was muffled behind the scarf.

_“De da’rahn, dahn’direlan.”_

“Hey.” She glared at him, but it was defeated by the smile behind her scarf.


	45. Chapter 45 Excerpt

Long after Dorian had retired to his nest, Ixchel stayed up by the fire. She stared meditatively into the flames, and it was in a strange state of waking sleep that she felt the pull again—not only did she feel it in her being, she felt it in the Anchor, too, distinctly.

She _knew_ he was near.

Ixchel turned her head and found him entering the camp seemingly unnoticed even by the watch. He was bundled tightly in his robes, cloak pulled tight and low over his face, but she knew him from his loping gait. He moved directly and linearly toward her, as though pulled by the same feeling. When he finally reached her side, she looked up at him and found his pale, angular face shadowed in the depths of his hood so much like the ancient Elvhen she had met, it nearly struck her off-balance.

He pulled a tattered book out from the depths of his robes and handed it to her. “I found a small Dalish camp,” he said quietly. “They were all dead. Exposure. It seems that they were caught unaware by the sudden freeze.”

Most of the journal’s pages had been ripped out, but enough remained intact for her to quickly ascertain the evidence for what they had said. “The Cradle of Sulevin?” she wondered aloud. “I have never heard of it. If lives were lost for its story, I would have us learn and tell it.”

Solas hummed softly behind his cloak.

“You are avoiding sleep, _lethallan_ ,” he said.

“What’s the difference if I sleep or not, if I am left just as exhausted and bruised as the day previous?” she asked dourly.

“Your mind can play tricks on you if not given a chance to rest. Even if it does not recuperate much during that time, at least it is not occupied.”

“Have you even tried these yourself?” she asked. She did not try to accuse, because she knew the answer already, and in the end it didn’t matter. He pitied her for it, and he felt guilty for providing it. Ixchel bit her lip. “It’s the transition that’s the worst,” she said. Her mouth continued to move, almost before her mind caught up: “It feels like deathroot. And then it feels like waking from death.”

Solas looked down at her again, but she could not read his expression in the shadows cast by the fire.

“That’s because it is.”

Ixchel blinked at him.

Then she blinked at him again.

And then she burst into tears.

He was kneeling in front of her at once, grasping her by the arms as she collapsed in on herself. She buried her face in her hands to stifle her sobs, but the knowledge he had just given her had reignited a series of interconnected tragedies. She had not thought—had not _allowed_ herself—to dwell on the panic the sleep paralysis brought with it. She had buried her anger and the ghost of the pain of _living_ after having _died_.

The Anchor in her palm flared wildly, an explosive burst of energy that pushed them apart. It felt bruising against her face, and she grabbed at her elbow to stop the pain as it lanced up her arm. “No, no, no,” she sobbed.

She bowed over and did not fight as Solas tried to quell the Anchor’s outburst, while she tried to quell the emotions that had triggered it. But she could not. She could hardly open her eyes to see at all from how deeply despairing and regretful she was; there was seemingly no other outlet than her tears. She wept bitterly into her knees.

 _“Harellen ma’ghi’lem,”_ she admitted finally, her voice a rattling sob. She gritted her teeth, but the words wrenched out of her in furious, grieving gasps: “Deathroot? Again? Corypheus needs no Nightmare when my mind is such a terrible place to be.”

Solas was very still against her, but when she tried to pull her arm back from him, his fingers clamped down on her like a vice. It was almost painful, how tightly his nails dug into her skin. She felt panic and terror rise up in her, and the Anchor began to flare again. This time, there was no shooting agony, no magic associated with it—just a ghost-terror of her arm being taken from her—

Words continued to spill out of her, hysterical and broken. “What’s the difference, really?” she asked. “Dream-slain or real-slain? To be free of such awful feelings, unaware of danger?”

“Stop it,” he said.

“How can you be afraid of losing love if you can’t love in the first place?”

_“Stop!”_

_“I can’t!_ That’s the _problem!”_

Solas dragged her upright with a steel grip on her arms. Her knees were loose as he supported her entire weight with a strength that did not match his frame. She still could not see him clearly through the curtain of tears that still spilled down her face.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ he urged in a hissing whisper. He shook her. _“Ixchel, telanadas.”_

Ixchel’s face crumpled again, lip wobbling wretchedly. For it was then that she knew she had been lying to herself for so long. _She did not trust him._ She could not trust him. She was too broken to ever do so again. Even worse, he seemed to have realized the hypocrisy of his words.

His grip on her loosened, and he slowly set her back on her feet, guided her back so that she could sit. And then he stepped away. She caught a glimpse of his face beneath his hood, as she blinked dumbly in the glaring light of the Anchor and the fire. Glistening tracks along his cheeks told her that he had given in to tears, for the first time since she had ever known him.

Ixchel held his gaze, though her eyes had filled with tears again and she could hardly control the spasming muscles in her face. She expected him to leave.

She whispered, more to herself than to him: “It’s not about _dying_ , it’s about being dead. About being able to uncurl myself from that tense hunch, huddle, waiting for the punches to land. So I do my best to be objective, hold my fears apart from myself, examine them, assess whether they are _rational_ or distorted by these dark shadows in my mind. If there is nothing to fear, to try to release the fear and just live. But it’s made so many other feelings seem so alien and distant I don’t know what to do with them.” Her whole body trembled. “Like I’m already Tranquil, and then the emotions come back and I can’t handle them. And then I’m just waiting for the _one_ that overwhelms me—”

 _“Stop,”_ he said again.

Ixchel clamped her mouth shut, but her trembling only got worse. She decided that she could not bear to watch him leave. The Nightmare had taken the sight from her, and she did not want to be refreshed. It was enough that she knew he would leave. It was enough that he was constantly pulling away any time he allowed her to draw a step nearer. She dropped her eyes to the ground and covered her head to cower from the anticipated blow.

“I’m sorry,” she said to her knees.

Solas took a deep breath. He released it just as slowly. In a moment that stretched into an eternity, she felt nothing except for the the warmth of the fire against her wet cheeks and the agonizing certainty that he was going to leave.

Solas crept closer and knelt at her feet. “I know there is no wisdom that will heal this wound in you,” he said.

She swallowed. “I’m so broken,” she whispered.

A soft whine escaped him, and he reached for her hands. He held the tightly, his skin cold against her heated palms. They clung to each other, so tight their bones protested, but neither let go. “ _Telanadas_ ,” he said. “ _Telanadas_. You have been so brave. You have been so strong. _Mala suledin nadas._ We both know you can. Today is not the day.” As he spoke the words, words he had heard her say, heard Cole repeat, he seemed to suddenly find the answer to another question he had not known to ask. His grip tightened even further. “ _Ixchel_ , you are… _you_. There is no one in the world who could not want to help you. But they cannot know if you do not let anyone in, if you do not ask.”

“I don’t want to _need_ help,” she rasped. "And what help could they offer?"

“No one is strong enough to walk through life alone.”

“And sometimes, I’d rather die.”

They looked at each other then, troubled mirrors with all the same cracks. She knew he had said _they_ instead of _we_. She saw her fears reflected back in him, deeper but just as dark. They looked at each other, and they both understood what an impasse they were at.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ she told him weakly, a peace offering.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ he repeated. “No more herbs. We will find another way.”


	46. Chapter 46 Excerpt

One by one, Ixchel’s friends joined them by the fire.

Ixchel tried to keep her chin up, but the knowledge that the entire camp had likely heard her exchange weighed heavily on her shoulders. She was glad, at least, that most of her forces were scattered about the forward camps—only Harding and Leliana’s scouts remained. Yet that was no less mortifying and disheartening.

“I’m sorry,” she said to each of her friends as they arrived.

They simply stared at her in response, at a loss.

Finally, she put her head in her hands. “I know all of you care. I know all of you want to help. I don’t know how you can. I don’t—” she took a shaking breath “—even know what’s _wrong.”_

For a long while, no one spoke.

“Well,” Blackwall said. He winced even as he spoke, as though breaking the silence hurt like breaking through a pane of glass. “It sounds like you’re afraid of a future where you end up alone. A future you don’t know will come to pass.”

Ixchel felt like she had rocks in her throat and mouth. She worked her jaw around more tears. “I’m _certain_ of it,” she whispered into her hands.

“How can you be certain of anything?” Cassandra snorted. “Have we not learned, time and time again, that we cannot anticipate the designs of our fate?”

“It keeps happening,” she replied hollowly. “Does that not mean enough?”

“Patterns can be broken,” Dorian said.

No one could meet each other’s eyes; hypocrites, all.

“What a merry band of misfits we are,” Dorian sighed. “But Solas is right. You are who you are, Ixchel. And though I’m not of a certain persuasion, I’m not a fool—there is nothing about you that is repulsive in the slightest.”

She shook her head slowly. In the silence that followed, she could hear every snowflake melting on her clothes. She could hear the beat of Solas’s heart, pounding in his chest as though he had run a marathon. She could hear dragon wings stirring the air ten miles away.

The world waited for her to speak.

“I…care,” she said, “and I see. I see each of you, with the worthy paths you walk. Someday, our paths will diverge. And who am I to keep you from your destinations if I believe they are as honorable as my own?” She had hoped her voice would get stronger as she spoke, but it only sounded more wretched. “Neither can I leave my path while I live and breathe. My duty is one that will never be done, _because_ I see, and _because_ I care. And so my duty is all I have, and it’s _hard_ , and I have to be the one to _lead_ , to set the example. I am always alone in my decisions, even if there are those who follow.” She coughed bitterly to disguise a sob.

“You walk the _din’an’shiral,”_ Solas said from within the depths of his hood.

Ixchel’s veins ran as cold as the Elfblood. She squeezed her eyes shut against the renewed flood of her tears. She could not breathe, like a knife between her ribs would prick her on every inhale. She could not think of that word, hear that word, without that feeling surfacing. The Anchor flared, not so violently, just a spark.

“What is that?” Cassandra asked.

“A journey to the end.” Solas spoke in a monotone, even, devoid of rhythm or rhyme. It left his voice cold and dead, made his words impersonal. But of course, Ixchel knew that they were _intensely_ personal, and no matter how well-crafted the mask, she saw through it all. “‘The end,’ a goal so set in stone it negates everything on the journey. But it is a path you must walk in solitude forever. You must deny yourself of everything you desire, lest you betray yourself—your dedication.”

His face was hidden from her by his hood; she wondered if tears still streaked down his cheeks, perhaps froze there, like icicles from his chin in the cold.

Another heavy silence fell between them all; no one dared breathe to break it.

Ixchel sniffled.

“A self-fulfilling prophecy,” Blackwall murmured. “If your duty doesn’t end, you can’t leave, sure. But you wouldn’t ask anyone to join you?”

Ixchel found herself looking at the opaque top of Solas’s hood far too intently. Seemingly sensing the attention, he looked sharply away into the darkness. “We spoke of other paths,” he said, voice lowered so only she could hear. _“Tel’harellen ma’ghi’lenas.”_

“It’s a sick circle,” Ixchel agreed with Blackwall. She dug her nails into her scalp, then down her face, tugged on the deepest of her scars. “ _I’m_ sick. I don’t know,” she said again, “how to fix it.”

It was Cassandra who stood and closed the distance between them, as she came to sit beside Ixchel. The Seeker took Ixchel’s hands in her own.

“Then we treat it as we would treat any lifelong handicap,” she said gently, but with a finality that left no room for argument. “The Iron Bull has lost an eye, and found a way to live and fight just as well without it. But he still has us look out for his blind side, just in case. You know you do not see the world clearly, and you are obviously well-practiced in remembering that, most of the time. It is good for us to know this, Inquisitor. We can look out for your blind sides, just in case.”

Ixchel did not resist when Cassandra pulled her into a hug. It would have been amusing, the metaphors which the Seeker turned to, if it did not so clearly speak to Ixchel’s warrior heart.

And yet she cynically wondered what difference any of it would make.

“You don’t seem Tranquil,” Dorian said suddenly. “It is _normal_ to have low lows, Ixchel. I admit that you seem to have problems scooping yourself back out of the depths. I agree with Cassandra on those points. But it also seems to me you don’t _allow_ yourself to have high highs in exchange—even the most fleeting.” He gestured with his elbow at her, his hands still tucked under his armpits to keep warm. “However distant you might feel from them, your feelings do matter. As irrational as they might seem. They matter to those who care about you. We can help you practice them, so you feel less alien when you do have the time to indulge.”

He wrinkled his nose at her. “I am quite aware that I am the pot calling the kettle black,” he added in a dry voice. “But how about it?”

“Each of us carries a guilt of some kind. We cling to it as a certainty, and use it as a shield against the unknown,” Blackwall said. “We, more than most, stand on the precipice of change… Perhaps it is right that we cast those weights aside to move forward.”

Ixchel reached out with a hand for him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he clasped her hand gently in both of his own. She stared at him, throat swollen to the point of speechlessness. With every second that passed, she ached all the more. _Thom, Thom, Thom,_ she pleaded. _I’m proud of you._

And like that, one by one, they excused themselves again—likely not to sleep, but to contemplate, and gather themselves for the day ahead.


	47. Chapter 46 Excerpt

At last, Solas stirred from where he still sat on the ground. He drew himself up painstakingly, then held his hand out for her. “Sleep with me. I will find you, and we will build a sanctuary if we can. Even a few hours will help you.”

He held her hand but did not lace their fingers together—and she recognized it for what it was: a chaste touch to guide, but not an invitation. Not for either of them. She kept her head down as he led her to his tent, and she stood, dizzy and weary, as he set up his bedroll and began stripping away the layers of his robes. When he turned to her, she realized belatedly that she still wore her full armor from the day, and she began fumbling at clasps with numb fingers.

Solas batted her hands away gently and began removing the armor himself with nimble fingers. As she stood, head still bowed to avoid his gaze, she recognized in him the experienced warrior that seemed so out of place with his mastery of magic and the Fade. She wondered what the wars of his youth were like. He was so familiar with its unseen scars and philosophies, and he put her armor on and helped her take it off with well-practiced hands.

When the last of her armor was piled on the floor, she toed out of her boots and followed him to bed. They were already painfully familiar with the process, finding the perfect way she fit in his arms, bundling together to keep warm. She rested her hand on his chest again, over his heart, so that the Anchor beat in time with his pulse. But he did not hold her hand, and instead he gathered her by her elbow—securing her closer, more sheltered in his arms, but unwittingly reminding her of all that she had yet to lose.

Falling asleep with the herbal concoction felt like having a trapdoor opened from underneath her, into the Buried Sea. In Solas’s arms, she drifted to sleep more peacefully than she had in several weeks.

Her defenses had to have been rusty, because she did not even have the chance to shape the Fade at all before he infiltrated it. He had been waiting for her, perhaps; or, he was more forceful with his entry, she could not tell. Everything about her dream was blurred, as though she still gazed at the world through a lens of tears.

Everything here was green and shifting—that, she could tell. But when she first felt him arrive, she turned to look, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if she were looking at a wolf or a man. He drew closer, then, and she saw he was dressed all in gray, with a thick wolf pelt draped over his shoulders.

Ixchel restrained herself from reaching for it.

Everything blurred again, and they were hooded, both in white, and he was leading her through a grand golden hall. There were figures all around, shrouded in exquisite fabrics, pure magic, and even light itself; vegetation grew in perfect symbiosis with the architecture, just as Taven had surmised, except more artfully than any mortal mind could have imagined.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do if Mythal suddenly approached them from among the figures, for certainly, this was a day at court in Elvhenan.

“You are smart, _lethallan_ ,” he told her with a hint of weary humor. “You may know when we are, but _where_ are we?” He gently shepherded her to a portal that was shaped like an eluvian, but was a physical portal out into a garden that was vast as a forest. He tilted his head slightly and breathed deeply. “It is a maze. A curiosity, a diversion.”

“A literal maze,” she echoed.

“Time was inconsequential in Elvhenan. I’m certain you can extrapolate.”

“So an _endless_ maze.”

He glanced down at her from within his hood, and there was the sparkle she had missed—the sparkle she had taken from him, with all her dark talk. Her own smile faltered.

“A living maze,” he added. “I have walked it…many times. At any moment, I could move us to a far end, and we would still be lost in the maze. Solving it requires an understanding of how things _grow_ on such a level that no young, fat, sadistic fearling could hope to achieve. Let it grapple with the wit of our People, Ixchel. I dare it.”

His words lit a fuse in her that burned and threatened to explode into tumultuous emotion if she did not pinch it out soon. At the very least, Ixchel wanted to reach for him again. Instead she reached for the foliage: a low-hanging tree whose leaves were as soft as lambskin, but golden. She rubbed the leaves between her fingers, then dipped her face to brush them against her cheek.

They curled against the warmth of her skin like a lover’s touch.

“You are younger here,” she told Solas.

“A young man’s ego urged me to solve this maze,” he admitted.

Ixchel turned back to him, her eyes dropping to his feet. Beneath his white cloak, she could see the golden toes of Sentinel armor. “It is a wonder,” she said. “I am sorry to tarnish it, Solas. _Ir abelas, ma falon.”_ She shivered. Like all things, words came more easily to her in the Fade, complex emotions summed up so simply: “I don’t want to tarnish you.”

 _“Vir or val'las elan ema revas i elan ea ina'lahn'ehn, y ely laimem vir,”_ he replied gently, and in his voice she heard all of his age resonate: it was not the voice, nor the words, of the young man who had walked this maze.

“Guide me,” she whispered.

A soft breath escaped him, nearly a chuckle, but not quite. “The blind cannot lead the blind,” he replied. “But I can show you the maze.”

-:-:-:-:-

For the first time in weeks, Ixchel woke energized and nimble. She did not have a moment of panic where she felt as though she had lost an arm, and then remembered she had one, and then realized she could not feel it. She did not have a sudden surge of pins-and-needles in her limbs as feeling returned, and neither did she have a sudden surge of emotion as all the events of the previous day and the events to come returned to her. She had been emoting all night, after all.

She did, however, feel morbid and guilty for waking in Solas’s arms after all she’d forced him to endure of her.

_Endure. Endure._

How many times had she heard that?

_Endure. Endure._

He had never asked such a terrible thing of her, then; she had to grant him that.

But the world had. The world continued to do so. Why? _Why?_ Why, when she knew it was futile? She had asked him so many, many times, in so many ways. She had never been given an answer. Perhaps he did not have one for himself.

Ixchel’s eyes grew misty as she asked another question:

_Did you look for me when I left?_

She slipped carefully out of Solas’s arms and went to pick up her armor. He slept deeply still, perhaps taking some time for himself in the Fade, and she watched his peaceful face with tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Did you scour the worlds for me, as I did for you, ma vhenan?_

_Did the betrayal taste the same, when I walked a path you could not follow?_


	48. Chapter 47 Excerpts

The enormous rift glistened behind him like a strange jewel, and Ixchel could see red lyrium on both sides, and snow. Her pulse fluttered in time with the lyrium song, which was strangely louder here in the green light of this massive rift. She could suddenly recognize that it wasn't _sick_ , it was _sad_. No wonder she could hear it so well. Wasn't she both?

As she approached, Imshael raised one cool eyebrow at her, above eyes that bear dark circles beneath them. She wondered again whose body this was, or if it were a mimicry, and either way what choice had left its face so haunted?

"Hello, Imshael," she said.

Imshael looked her up and down and up again, centered on Dirthamen's crown. She had the deeply infuriating sense that he saw all the terrible choices she had made as though they were veins of lyrium standing out through her skin, through her armor, bright and blistering.

"Yes, you _would_ know me, Champion," Imshael said with a tinge of amusement. Her heart protested in her ribs, now out of a fear that Imshael saw more than merely the choices she had made, but rather also the consequences.

"Where is Compassion?" she asked, tense.

"Spirits make such **boring** choices. Do you really think I would kill Compassion for simply doing as Compassion does?" Imshael scoffed.

"Yes, if he interfered with whatever you planned," Ixchel replied. "I asked where he is."

"And not what I've planned?"

Ixchel fixed him with a serious, tired look. "No. There are bigger things coming."

That seemed to give him pause. He stared at her with renewed interest.

_"Where is Cole?"_

"He is alive," Imshael promised. "They're funny, these Red Templars. Give them enough lyrium and they stop caring about Mages and Demons. But they're still Templars. Rather hard to vanish on them."

Ixchel took a single step forward. "What do you want?"

"Would you make a deal with me, I wonder?" Imshael smiled then, all glittering teeth and dark eyes.

"Inquisitor—" Cassandra began, but Imshael tutted.

 _These_ are your friends? They're very violent. I wonder if they’re heroes or murderers—it’s so very hard to tell."

"It rarely hurts to listen," Solas said, voice low—it startled Ixchel, how it was the closest thing to a growl she had ever heard from him. " _Trust_ is another matter entirely."

Imshael chuckled, but fortunately his eyes remained glued on the tangled nest of choices that was her own broken heart, rather than let his attention be drawn to the Dread Wolf. "Oh, but _doesn't_ it hurt to listen?" Imshael asked Ixchel darkly. Then, he looked away and held up a hand apologetically. "That is not my job, of course. I am merely kin to Regret."

"You are kin to many," she allowed. "What deal would you offer?"

"I will tell you where Compassion is kept, but you must tell me what is coming." Imshael held his hands out. “Or, of course, we can fight to the death. Will you choose to keep your secrets?”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. "I must have Cole in sight before I tell you," she said.

"Reasonable," Imshael allowed. "Very well. The choice is made. The deal is struck." He smiled again, unnervingly plastic in its veneer. "Follow the Crystal Grace, Inquisitor. It seemingly leads to a solid wall, but look _closer_. In the cave, below this keep, there is a place with with some...interesting qualities. One of which is that it is utterly soundproof."

"So the Templars posted in there won't know that we've destroyed their operation up here," Ixchel deadpanned. "Got it."

Imshael nodded.

"Very well. Solas, Blackwall, take some soldiers and fetch Cole." She kept her gaze fixed on Imshael. "Cass, Dor, stay with me."

The spirit hummed thoughtfully. "Trust _is_ another matter indeed," he murmured. "I suppose with all the choices _you've_ made, you might have learned that lesson...”

Imshael begin walking around her, assessing her in a different light than before. Then his eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. This was more threatening, as though he, like Envy, were about to jump at her and into her mind—still, he restrained himself, drew his sickly frame more upright. A choice of his own.

"You have so often chosen _not_ to have a choice." Imshael spoke more quietly than she expected. Perhaps the others would not hear, but perhaps that would not work so well in her favor. "But I can show you that a choice does not _always_ have to end in blood."

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “I don’t know that you could show me that,” she said. “And it matters very little. I’m trying, whether it’s possible or not.”

Imshael began to chuckle. "Oh, _da'len,_ what an interesting choice indeed." His chuckling became laughter that felt brittle and hollow. Now _here_ was a trickster who would chortle to himself in the far corners of the Void, if he ever found the perfect person and the perfect choice. Perhaps, once, he had. Though he had not seemed particularly drawn to Solas, if that were the case.

Then, his mirth shattered into icy gravity. "You need not _speak_ to tell me what is coming. I know what you are. And you know who I am," he said. "We Forbidden Ones, the Unbound? We who sought to shape the world after its destruction? You think I don't recognize blood magic, when I was one who taught the humans after the fall of Elvhenan?" His lip curled. "Your soul is stained with the blood of worlds twice over, Champion, and so many _terrible_ choices."

She realized then, as his form shifted in his Rage, that he was truly Unbound. Like Cole.

"You made the most terrible choice of all… You were too afraid of others’ choices to let them choose! So _you_ chose for them!"

"Stop it!" The voice was weak and full of agony and anger. She glanced behind her in time to see Cole as he entered the courtyard with Solas, Blackwall, and her soldiers. “ _You_ stopped letting other people choose, too!” Cole cried to Imshael. “You give them _your_ choices, and you have them make them for you!”

Ixchel took a step back warily as the demon grew agitated at Cole’s words, but Ishmael’s Rage did not close the space between them. He burned, blue and hot; she was aware of the barriers that had settled over her, of the swords that pointed at Imshael threateningly behind her. But for now, Ixchel was not afraid of a mere Rage demon. She took a deep breath, and she stepped forward once more.

“I fully admit to it,” she told Imshael. The demon’s burning rippled green, then red, and began to cool. “To choose requires Trust, and Hope. I had those taken from me, Imshael. I’m learning it all again.”

The cooled magma of its form turned black; frost began to deposit on its head and shoulders, crept up from the ground. The temperature around it in the courtyard dropped precipitously; it felt like ice shards in her nose and throat just standing so close to it.

The demon hovered and sank in the air. “Why? You already _know_ what choices are,” Imshael’s Despair hissed. “Some think they are opportunities. Some think they are a blessing, a sign of favor from the gods: free will. _We_ know better, don’t we, _da’len?”_ The hollow form beneath the rags of Despair rippled, dripped, howled: “Every choice is a tragedy. _Every_ choice leaves a dead world behind, blood on your hands.”

“And Corypheus will Blight the world,” she replied to it, “and will rob it of all choice in its path to doomsday. Does _he_ even _choose_ to do so? Is he not some base animal, clawing to the top of a mountain on vicious instinct alone? Is that why you follow, Imshael? Because _you_ are tired of choosing?”

She stared at Imshael, the black Void beneath the hood of his tattered robes. She stared into the Void, and it stared back, whispering something directly to her soul:

_Futile…!_

“I offer _you_ a choice, Imshael,” she parroted quietly, without a trace of humor. “Things don’t always have to end in blood.”

And the demon rose higher in front of the rift. Tattered rags stretched out into jointed legs that ended in hooked claws, and Imshael’s Fear loomed above her.

“Don’t they, Champion?” it snarled. Its features cracked.

The rift roared as fearlings poured out, and the battle began.

The fearlings in the waking world were more beetle-like than arachnid in their presentation, which gave _stomping_ on them a very satisfying quality as her boots broke through brittle shells. She was always aware of Imshael hovering in one corner or another, trying to avoid the spray of arrows that her archers positioned far outside the courtyard aimed at him.

The few remaining Red Templars hounded her and her companions as they tried to give chase to the demon, Shrieks and more Behemoths, but _mostly_ , Ixchel realized, Templars who had not yet been fully corrupted. She tried her best to shout at them in the melee, to beg them to stand down—but none did.

They knew they had made their choice, and they clung to it in the face of a new one.

Tired of making choices

Ixchel’s world suddenly turned sideways, and then upside-down. Imshael had phased out of the ground and caught her in its arachnid arms, and her axe went clattering to the ground as she was dragged up high into the air by her ankle.

She stared into Imshael’s face and saw nothing different than the Nightmare. Its skin, ravaged by time and self-mutilation, split anew as it snarled at her. She felt it leeching things away from her, so much like the Nightmare—and then its attention turned.

The gaping, bleeding sockets where it eyes should have been locked on to someone—

Ixchel struggled against its loosening grip. “NO!” she shouted at it. “Don’t you _fucking dare_ look at him!”

A blur of white, a blast of cold and Fade magicks—

Ixchel dropped head-first to the ground.

Arms crashed into her midsection, stealing all her air, and she went toppling into the carts of red lyrium with her attacker or savior. Bright splotches obscured her vision and searing pain in her head made it difficult to sit up, but she felt her hands settle on a barrier and not the bare lyrium. A hand grabbed her by the elbow, then yanked her upright. Her head swam, dipped into unconsciousness, then back. Hands were on her shoulders, shaking her, and a voice shouted over the ringing in her ears.

Ixchel grabbed on to Dorian, fisted her hands in his cloak, as he helped her stagger away from the wreckage of lyrium and wood and stone.

A white wolf dragged Imshael’s Fear to her, screeching and clawing, and though each of its needle-legs sank into the wolf’s fur and drew blood, the _massive_ wolf paid no heed. It chewed on Imshael a little in retribution, but then spat it at her feet.

Cole appeared at Amarok’s shoulder. Both of them were battered and severely injured, but something about them together at this moment seemed far more imposing than she had ever seen them.

“There is nothing wrong with choosing to die so others might _live_ ,” Cole told Imshael. “If _you_ die, so many Spirits will grow: Regret and Fear, but also Longing, and Introspection, and Empathy and even Compassion.”

“You are wrong,” Imshael rasped. The fighting was starting to die down around them, and its voice was growing quieter. “Empathy is the _enemy_ of free will. So long as there is a world to observe with empathy, the choice will be made for you. It is not a fun game.”

“Empathy, guilt, regret, fear,” Ixchel intoned. “Are they confines, or are they guides, Imshael? Can’t you _choose?”_

The demon drew a ragged breath.

“You named yourself,” he said, a slow question.

“Yes.”

“But you also decided what it _means.”_ A flicker of a smile twisted its cracked and bleeding lips. “Is that a confine? Is it a guide? _Can_ you choose, Ixchel?

“I have to believe,” she told it.

It laughed hoarsely. “No, not believe. Belief is not a choice. Belief is a state of _being_. _Hope_ is a choice.” The Fear demon reached for her, and as its skin began to disintegrate, she saw something bright and golden hidden beneath its being. _“Da’len,_ Hope is a Choice.”

“Today will not be the day we stop choosing,” she swore to it. She raised her hands to clasp its arm. “But today, you get to rest.”

Imshael looked up at her with hollow eye sockets. Yet even still, she felt its gaze full of something like Pride.

Cole raised his daggers, and in one motion, it was all over. Imshael’s golden sparks fluttered back into the giant rift along with the remains of his fearlings, and the battlefield was left in still and unmoving shambles. A silence fell over the place, broken only by the wet gasping breaths of the dying, the hum of the lyrium, and the crackling and twinkling of the Rift.

Ixchel slowly approached the latter.

More gently than she had ever thought she could, Ixchel closed the rift into the realm of Choice.


	49. Chapter 49 Excerpts

She had been surprised to find so much metal here in the keep, given its ancient origins. She could not recall having ever seen something from Elvhenan with so much metal, and certainly not anything from the Empire of the Dales. Now she examined some of the metal fixtures and tried to understand their purpose. To her, some looked like dragon’s skulls, hollow and sharp and serpentine. But there were other metal spires that seemed like they were pointing to something; others seemed intended to hold or enclose something quite large. Some seemed perfect for the giant red lyrium crystals, almost like the Tevene foci that she had used to tear down the ice wall of the Hakkonites… Other metal fixtures had less obvious purposes. Cages, perhaps?

Ixchel glared at them. There were many things she had heard about Andruil that had not been particularly pleasant.

She continued her circuit and found herself in a smaller courtyard. Her boots crunched louder in the snow, and she looked down. There was glass beneath her feet, winking at her with silver and gold.

She bent and brushed away the snow and found that as she suspected, it was the remnants of an eluvian. She picked up a shard and found that it had been blunted by erosion, so likely it had been broken for quite some time. A quick glance around and she could not discern in the darkness which portal had once held the eluvian. There were stone arches on every wall, and they could have been mirrors or they could have been windows.

She sighed and fingered the glass thoughtfully.

 _Are you out looking for eluvians?_ she wondered. _Would you claim this keep for yourself, Fen’Harel, in the days to come?_

“Inspecting the spoils of your victory, _lethallan?”_

Ixchel whirled round, her boots sending glass and rock clattering in her wake. He stood in the archway from whence she’d come, his hood still pooled up and his robes pooled about him as though to obscure. But he did not _hide_. In fact, he stood taller than he even usually did, when he was pretending to be a withdrawing and uninteresting hedge mage.

She clutched the shard of the eluvian to her chest and looked up at him, but she could not find his eyes from beneath the murk of his hood. Nevertheless, she could sense that there was something different about him here. Maybe it was because the Veil was so thin. Maybe it was because this was a place of their people, and he felt the weight of its significance. But Ixchel had a feeling that there was something meaningful about this place to _him_ , and she wasn’t sure what it implied, and she certainly couldn’t ask.

Ixchel was deeply concerned, regardless—whatever it was, it had caused him to watch her with almost suspicion. She felt, somehow, for some reason, she was in danger under his gaze.

She took a deep breath.

She wasn’t afraid of the Dread Wolf

“I’m not giving this place to Orlais, don’t worry,” she told him.

He chuckled. “No. I didn’t think you would. Especially since you found such beautiful flowers here, somewhere.”

It hadn’t been her imagination: there was a dark undercurrent in his voice that seemed utterly out of step with his words.

“Cole found them,” she said, more defensively than was probably warranted.

He hummed. “Curious. They are a powerful artifact.” She caught the glisten of one eye, just for a moment, in the dark—and then it was gone. “Do you know what it is called?” he asked.

“No.”

“It is the Ardent Blossom. _Felgaral dir’vhen’an._ Throughout history, similar items have been given to great warriors selected to be a ruler’s Champion. It stems from tales of Andruil giving such a prize to Ghilan’ain.”

Ixchel touched the flowers in her hair warily. “I should take it off.”

That did not seem to be the right thing to say. The air between them thrummed with magical energies and tension. She realized suddenly—had _he_ been looking for the magic that now adorned her hair? Did he want the flowers for himself? Were they important? Did he want their power, or were they simply meaningful to him?

Because they were Andruil’s?

“Why? It is truly beautiful.” Solas left the threshold, and he began to prowl about the circumference of the courtyard. His movements behind his cloak seemed to float, as though he were made of liquid or gas. “And it is powerful.”

She tracked his path around her, warily, with her eyes. When he passed beyond the line of her vision, her shoulders tensed, and she looked down at the shard in her hands. It was completely white with moonlight, and blinding. A slight tilt, and the light flashed in her eyes, but then she could see her reflection: the flowers, the scars, the vallaslin and all.

“Do you know the prayers to Andruil?” she asked him sourly. “ _’Andruil, blood and force, your people pray to you. Grant that your eye may not fall upon us. Spare us the moment we become your prey. Andruil, blood and force, save us from the time this weapon is thrown. Your people pray to you. Spare us the moment we become your sacrifice.’_ I don’t want anything of hers, Solas. She sounds horrific.”

There was a flicker of movement, and she angled the eluvian shard again over her shoulder to find Solas standing there, so close, yet she had not felt his approach. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she shone moonlight into his face and saw the wicked smile upon it—deliciously dark, devilish.

Solas reached up and unhooked one blossom from her hair. Then, he took a step back; she turned to follow him and watched warily as he turned the blossom over in his hands.

“What if _I_ name you Champion?” he asked the blossom.

Ixchel stared at him. “What?”

Without lifting his face, he raised his eyes to hers to assess her reaction. His sharp humor only seemed to grow. “Then it will not be Andruil’s, nor Ghilan’nain’s,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. It had been quite some time since she had seen the _trickster_ of the Dalish legends come out to dance. And now she knew this was a dance, a game—she just couldn’t tell what tune it played. Did he want her to be comfortable wearing the Ardent Blossom, or did he want her to be rid of it? Did he want it for himself, for its power, or to destroy it out of some retribution to Andruil and Ghilan’nain? As always, with Solas, there was a large piece of the picture that she was missing, or a fog on the lens, and she hesitated to settle on an explanation lest she choose incorrectly and be judged for it, even without knowing the rules.

There was one thing left she was certain of: she _liked_ the Ardent Blossom.

“Fine,” she said. She raised her chin defiantly, with a smirk on her lips that was just as mischievous and knowing as his own. “On the condition that I named myself first.”

His smile grew softer around the edges. “As I have learned,” he agreed. “You chose yourself. You gave yourself a name, decided its meaning. You hold your own promise.” He closed the distance between them and lifted the blossom above her head, cupped in two hands. “And thus I would name you _Panelan’vierlan,”_ he said, “and _Rogasha’ghi’lan_ , and Champion of the People. As you have named yourself: for all you shall serve, and for all shall you lead.”

She stared up at him as he slipped the blossom back into place, and all at once, whatever charge there had been in the air—whatever had preoccupied him, cast her in darkness in his eyes—snapped clear. He did not caress her, did not kiss her, but there was a sudden gentleness now in the way he touched her hair and settled the blossom more securely. The fondness with which he looked at her, the love, hurt so deeply and so sweetly…she could not get enough of it.

Her earlier conversation with Dorian echoed in her mind.

_He’ll remake the world to suit his desires. His chosen to reign._

Ixchel swallowed thickly and hoped she had not just made a serious misstep in the game of the apocalypse.

Solas stepped back again, his smile now once again closed and relaxed. “Forgive me for slipping away during your celebration,” he said.

“Don’t apologize,” she replied. “I assumed you went to dream somewhere. I could not begrudge you for taking some time to yourself.”

“Thank you, _lethallan._ Some things come more easily to me in the Fade, and I had much to reflect upon after the events of the last several days.” He relaxed even further. “Now, I believe I have some ideas for how to hide you tonight. If you are ready.”

She glanced back at the shard of the eluvian in her hand. It seemed unkind to toss such a precious and powerful thing into the snow, so she made her way over to an empty window and placed it on the sill. Then, she returned to his side.

He began leading her back in the direction of camp, though it would be a long walk through the winding and ruined paths of Suledin. For a while, the only sounds she heard was the crunch of their steps in the snow, and the cries of birds in the far flung corners of the night. Then:

“I hope you know…I do not think any less of you, Ixchel. I am not afraid to see the cracks that you believe make you broken. I too have found myself lost down long, dark roads, alone.”

“Cole told me that we sound the same,” she said softly, so that her words were carried more in the mist than they were in the sound of her voice. “But he said that even in the moments that hurt, I can make you hope.”

Solas exhaled slowly. “You are more capable than you realize. Today was yet more proof. Few would be able to survive a battle of _rhetoric_ with a Spirit of Choice—let alone one so old and powerful as Imshael. But not only did you survive, not only did you subdue him, you _changed his essence._ I have learned by now that you have this affect on the world at large as well.”

“You’re not alone, Solas,” she said in a catching whisper.

“And neither,” he replied firmly, “are you.”


	50. Chapter 50 Excerpts

She and Cole hid by racing harts across rolling hills of golden grass, or wandered among stars. Solas walked the maze with her, but sometimes they lost themselves in ballrooms populated by more people than she could have ever imagined.

Solas first brought her there after Josephine and Vivienne wrote her, under the pretense that they should practice dancing. She lay her head down, and opened her eyes to the Fade, and found swirling spirits all around her. Solas had dreamed her in a dress unlike any she had ever seen or worn: it fluttered loosely at the top of her thighs, and it clasped at a gold loop around her neck, and everything in-between she couldn’t quite understand. It was white and flowy, and it was backless, and yet somehow it did not slip off her every curve and leave her exposed. Even so—she was left feeling very much as though Solas had dressed her in his desires.

She hadn’t seen him immediately, so she shaped the Fade enough around her to wear a more stately dress that was far less scandalous before going to seek Solas out in the crowd. She finally found him and swept him into a dance; if he was surprised by her change of clothes, he made no indication. They spun and twirled and dipped and flew with the bodies around them, tireless and free-spirited as one can only be in the Fade.

“You are an experienced dancer, Inquisitor,” he noted jubilantly.

“It’s like any footwork I’ve ever learned,” she replied, chin raised to deflect the question.

But more and more she began to feel a weight on her chest that felt like the cousin of guilt. The dress was but another stone added to that burden.

For it was difficult not to pretend that whatever lay between her and Solas was unspoken, taut, unresolved. He loved her, but he was holding back, yet even so he was indulging in other ways. She loved him, but the more she held back—out of respect for his boundaries, out of fear of reopening the wound of her heartbreak—the harder it was for her to imagine that she might ever accept his affections, in the best-case scenario. The more she pretended that she didn’t notice his affection, the more she pretended like sleeping in his arms didn’t mean anything and exploring the Fade together so intimately didn’t mean anything…she began to fear that her heart would cramp in the position of _not allowed to love._ And wouldn’t that be a tragedy?

Yet she could not bring herself to imagine that best-case scenario. She did not allow herself spend precious emotional fortitude on choosing to hope for _that._

Each morning she hoped to help as many people as possible on the way to stopping Corypheus. She hoped to shield as many of her dear friends from hurt as she could. She hoped to see Solas in possession of a self-renewing hope, a hope that could lead him forward even without her or her love. She hoped for a better future for the Dalish, and the city elves, and slaves everywhere, and the poor…

She did not let herself hope for such a small thing as love.

Finally, the call came: Josephine and Cullen had been analyzing the movement of troops on the Exalted Plains and identified that the emerging Venatori threat had begun to disrupt efforts on both sides of the Orlesian civil war. They urged decisive action, soon, in order to secure the goodwill of Celine and Gaspard. As the days passed, news arrived that a new threat had entered the equation: hordes of undead.

Thus it was that Ixchel led her small party out to the Exalted Plains.

-:-:-:-:-

“Welcome to the Exalted Plains,” Blackwall grumbled. “What a long, bloody history.”

They had just crested the rise above the forward camp and looked out at the smoke rising up from the plains. Ixchel drew up her horse and gazed out upon the Dirthavaren. “Lindiranae fell here. The last to hold the blade Evanura, the blade of honor, forged in Halamshiral.”

“And with her, fell the Dales,” Cassandra said softly. “I have heard the tale.”

Ixchel nodded. “But have you heard the song?”

She glanced back at her companions and found them shaking their heads. She looked back at the plains, the promise, and slowly made her way forward, letting the song rise softly from her as she progressed. She had heard the tune reconstructed only once, but it had stuck with her long after:

_“Bright silver were his helm and chain,  
_ _bright silver on his horse's rein;  
_ _he rode upon the golden plain,  
_ _the brave and comely knight._

_The elves stood fast, their banners high.  
_ _they would not flee, they would not fly,  
_ _though knowing they would surely die,  
_ _the last of Dalish might._

_He met them on the golden field,  
_ _the fate of elvenkind now sealed,  
_ _in mercy, urged them all to yield,  
_ _he sorrowed for their plight._

_But prideful were the Dalish kin,  
_ _their vengeful hearts could not give in:  
_ _with raging cry and dreadful grin,  
_ _they struck against the Light._

_Beneath the red and fading sun,  
_ _the elven stand was swift undone,  
_ _'til they were vanquished, all but one:  
_ _defiant in her fight._

_Her brothers on the field lay slain,  
_ _he would not see her die in vain.  
_ _In grief, cried "Yield!" to her again,  
_ _that good and gentle knight._

_He could not strike; his shield dropped low,  
_ _she lifted sword against her foe.  
_ _They did not see the far-off bow,  
_ _its arrow loosed in flight._

_A sharpened thorn, a searing brand,  
_ _a shot the elf could not withstand;  
_ _the sword fell lifeless from her hand,  
_ _with drops of crimson bright._

_He said no word, he made no sound,  
_ _but caught her, falling to the ground.  
_ _her dark hair flowing, all unbound:  
_ _a veil as black as night._

_And up around him came the call,  
_ _that celebrated Dalish fall,  
_ _the cry of vic'try came from all,  
_ _except the silver knight._

_The glimmer of his helm and chain,  
_ _now dull with dark and bloody stain.  
_ _He looked and saw upon the plain,  
_ _the dying elven light._

_Elf sword in hand, heart filled with woe,  
_ _no one would ever see him go,  
_ _but with a solemn prayer, spoke low,  
_ _he vanished into night._

_They say he rode on easterly,  
_ _the sword he placed beneath a tree  
_ _and there remained, on bended knee,  
_ _that grave and mournful knight.”_

Cole, who had taken to riding behind her, squeezed her tight around her midsection.

“Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?” she asked the air around her.

He pressed his cheek against her shoulder. “He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same,” he murmured, so softly that she felt his words more than she heard them. “You’re real, and it means everything could be real. Bright and sad, observes and accepts. Spirit self, seeing the soul, _solas,_ but somehow sorrows.”

Ixchel tightened her grip on the reigns and widened her lead down the hill toward the camp.


	51. Chapter 52 Excerpts

Solas folded the Veil and shot across the gap, reappearing over her prone form in a wash of Fade magicks. His hands searched her frantically for wounds and likely found many. “That was a very close call, lethallan,” he said bleakly.

She reached for him with her arm that was not an arm—but it was.

He took her hand and examined the Anchor in her palm. It did not flared wildly, did not tear at her skin and her being as it usually did when she were distressed. Rather, she saw that at the moment it spiraled out of her palm and across her hand in the same curves and swirls and patterns that adorned the foci it had come from. The light that lined her palm pulsed with the beat of his heart, of course, but it did not hurt.

With a start, she realized what she had remembered. She struggled to sit up, and with his other hand Solas supported her back until she was hunched over her hand, staring at her palm.

She had been dead, and the world had been dying, and in that space where reality and dreams met, Solas had reforged her from his memories and gave her an arm just as he had taken one from her years before. And in doing so, he had given her his power, just as he had taken it from the Anchor in the first place, and just as she had been given it from touching his foci at the Conclave.

But _this_ mark was not the mark of touching the foci. The mark, the arm, and even her body that bore it, had come from his meddling in Dorian’s resurrection of her. Not only had he given her _his_ power but also the power he had taken from Mythal, and from Titans and lyrium and the Veil itself.

She curled her fist around the patterns and held them tight. She was not sure what that meant, but it had meaning. She saw it now, though she did not understand.

Ixchel wished she could just ask him.

She reclaimed her hands from him. “They are lost to us, then,” she sighed. “Celine’s army.”

“I sensed great magic at work behind the walls,” Solas replied. “Not in the state you are in now—but later—it may be worth investigating what occurred there.”

-:-:-:-:-

“Inquisitor!”

Ixchel jumped when Harding addressed her. “Lace?”

“My people have spotted a group of Circle mages fleeing down the road to the southwest,” Harding said under her breath. “Just as you told me to look for. There were Venatori on their tails.”

Ixchel rose to her feet. “Thank you, Harding. Ready two horses immediately.”

Lace nodded and scampered off, leaving Ixchel to go rouse Solas. She picked up Bull’s warhammer on the way, leaving her axe in its place.

She found Solas already awake and leaving his tent. He had a gentle, excited smile on his face. “One of my oldest friends is in the area, _lethallan_ ,” he said.

“A spirit?” she guessed.

He beamed at her for her canny guess, but she reached for him urgently. “There is a group of desperate mages being chased by Venatori. They’re heading in the direction of ancient summoning stones. I do not know what they will attempt in their fear, and if your friend is near, then it is all the more urgent that we intercept them.”

Solas nearly forgot his staff in his hurry to don his armor and meet her. Cole appeared with the horses, armed and eager, eyes wide. “This is what you showed Envy,” the Spirit said reverently. “You know Demons are Spirits who were warped. You don’t want to see Wisdom turned to Pride!”

“Sure, exactly, yeah.” Ixchel brushed him off and dragged herself into the saddle, though the motion pulled at muscles that still ached, skin that was still taught and burned by the Arcane Horror.

“Shatter the stones, and no Spirit can be bound,” Cole continued. “Curiosity, Passion, Valor—you freed them to show Envy you were not afraid of Fear or Rage or—”

“Cole!” she urged. “Stealth!”

Solas mounted his horse, and they set off at a gallop down the road that led west.

Soon enough, they were passing burning corpses in the pre-dawn murk. Ixchel leaned closer over her horse’s neck and urged it fly faster. As they drew closer, they could hear the raised voices of mages echoing through the Fade.

“If we disrupt the binding quick enough, we may be able to stop the Spirit’s corruption,” Solas called desperately.

Ixchel’s horse leaped over a crumbled stone wall and landed in a thunder of hooves and earth beside a cowering mage. She drew her horse up short before she trampled him, and as her stallion reared and shrieked, other shrieks shattered the air.

“The Inquisitor!” a distinctly Tevinter voice jeered. “Stop her!”

“The Inquisitor?!” the mage nearest her gasped. “We are saved!”

Ixchel climbed up onto her horse’s saddle and balanced there precariously as she squinted into the night to assess the battle. There were only two Venatori that she could see, and seven Circle mages. Likely, the Circle mages would turn on her the moment she started interrupting their summoning, and then she’d have nine opponents to deal with. Optimistically, the mages would run and leave her with the Venatori Spellbinders to deal with.

“Cole, take the Venatori. Solas, watch my back! I’ll crack the stones!” She vaulted off of her horse’s back and somersaulted into the grass to avoid a barrage of ice that was sent her way. Then, she ran in the direction of the summoning circle and placed her trust fully in the strength of Solas’s barriers.

“What are you doing?!”

“Stop her! She will free the demon!”

“Lyrium potions—lyrium potions—!”

“Inquisitor, you must help us, please stop—no!”

Ixchel shattered the top of the first summoning stone with the full force of her momentum behind her hammer. A crack spread through it, nearly reaching its base, and she kicked out at it. The magic in the area hummed and vibrated in response to her attacks, and the Anchor flared as a tear formed in the Veil.

She picked up the pace of her barrage and succeeded in knocking down the first stone pillar. The tear sealed again on its own, but the mages still persisted in their summoning. She felt a searing heat on her back as she launched herself at the next pillar, and then the cool, rippling satin of Solas’s barrier reformed against her skin.

“Listen to me!” a mage shouted at her. “I was one of the foremost experts in demonology at the Kirkwall Circle—”

She rounded on the mage. “You will cease this binding ritual before the Spirit can be corrupted!” she retorted. “If you do so, I can protect you!”

The man made no indication that he would heed her, so she continued her assault. She heard Cole cry out in rage and pain behind her, but she did not pause. She could not afford to have a Pride demon—or anything else—slip through behind her back while she dealt with the Venatori.

“Stop her!” a mage cried again.

Solas’s barrier around her shattered in a concussive blast that finished the next pillar for her. As it fell, she allowed herself to turn and assess the battle, for the remaining two stones formed merely a conductive line of magical energies, and not an enclosure. She did not know much of binding rituals, but she guessed that such a geometric conduit would not be enough for the mages to continue their summoning.

Cole had caught _fire_ , targted by a fire mine trap, but it seemed that only one Venatori mage remained. She shouldered him out of the way. “Get to the water!” she shouted to him, and then she engaged the last Spellbinder with her hammer.

Solas was suddenly at her side; he stepped out of the Fade to flank the Spellbinder, and as she distracted it with a blow to the knees, Solas twirled his staff so that the blade pointed forward—and he lunged.

The staff head punched through the man’s chest with a sickening, wet crunch, and the mage slumped forward toward Ixchel. She stepped back, and Solas staggered forward at the sudden dead weight on the end of his staff.

He did not even bother to remove it from the body. He left it there, and he rounded on the Circle mages congregating fearfully in preparation for a new assault from the Inquisitor and her mage.

“All that remains now is them!” he snarled.

“Ah—ah—thank you! We thank you, Inquisitor!” The ‘foremost expert of the Kirkwall Circle’ approached with clasped hands. “We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads were too dangerous—”

“You would have tortured and killed whatever spirit was caught in that web!” Solas spat. “You would have turned even the most precious of ancient Wisdoms into a slave to kill in your names!”

“The book said it could help us!” the mage pleaded, nearly tripping over himself to withdraw from the obvious danger.

The mages cowered, and Ixchel forced herself to stare at them, to watch their fates play out in front of her. Her breath burned in her chest, and she realized she held it. She knew Solas would kill these people, these fools. She knew that he was powerful enough that she could not stop him, if that was what he had decided. She knew that all she believed in, everything she stood for, would damn her for not even trying. The world would be damned, if—after everything she had done thus far, after everything she had tried to teach him, willed him to understand, begged him to see—he still chose to kill them.

She should stop him.

But she held her breath anyway.

And she hoped.

“Damn you all!”

Ixchel felt the Veil warp around her, felt the Anchor bleed out from her toward its true master with the force of his anger. His shoulders shook with his rage, and it seemed that the whole world shook with it. She did not see his face as he took another step toward the mages—

He froze, and he quivered like a bowstring plucked tight and ready to release.

“Ixchel,” he said under his breath. “Look away.”

“No.”

“Do not stop me!” He spoke almost over his shoulder, but not quite, as though afraid to look at her.

Ixchel let her hammer fall to the ground, and she tucked her arms behind her back to hide how her hands shook.

“I will not even try.”

Solas shuddered as though she had slipped a knife between his ribs from behind.

A long silence followed.

“You are fools, all of you,” he said.

“I understand that one who was not trained in the Circle might—”

“Word of advice,” Ixchel called icily, “I’d hold off on explaining how spirits work to my friend here.”

“You are fools,” Solas said again. “The Inquisition’s aide was within your reach, but your pride and your fear prevented you from seeking it. Instead, you would have summoned a spirit—no matter its nature—and bend it to your will, enslave it for your protection as the Qunari do their _saarebas_! For mages trained in a Circle, you have learned nothing of cruelty and power!” He spat on the ground in front of them, and they shrieked and cowered pathetically. “You will turn yourself in to the Inquisition camp. They will protect you. They will grant you freedom that you do not deserve, but perhaps it will teach you its value. But you must swear to never— _never_ —again attempt to bind another to your will! Spirit or flesh, no one should be a slave to another’s will!”

“Do you swear it?” Ixchel demanded.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Come. I will lead you,” Ixchel said. “Any of you injured? You can have my horse. I will walk. Gather yourselves. _Now_!”

As the mages scattered, Ixchel glanced between Solas’s rigid back and Cole’s bedraggled form; it seemed that the Spirit had gone and rolled along the banks of the river to douse the fire. He did not seemed burned, but she could tell that his energy had fallen too low. Cole brushed by her and went to fetch Solas’s staff.

“I need some time alone,” Solas said.

She swallowed.

“I will meet you in Val Royeaux.”

“Take the time you need,” she said. “And take Cole.”


	52. Chapter 54 Excerpt

Ixchel cried when she got back to camp.

Cassandra and Bull were up waiting for her, having woken to the thundering hooves of her departure. One look at her face, and Cassandra barked at the mages to go report to the nearest officer, and then she dragged Ixchel off to a quiet corner of camp, with Bull following.

“What has happened this night?” Cassandra asked, more gently than Ixchel had expected.

That was what triggered the floodgates.

Ixchel crumpled to the ground, on her knees, and bent over with her face in her hands. For a while, she could not explain even to herself what she felt that overwhelmed her so. Part of it was Blackwall’s departure. She had not recalled it being quite so hard to save him from his own guilt, last time, and now she had the added burden of seeing her own immutable suicidal shadows reflected back at her. Not all of it was so bad: she was exceedingly relieved that she had been able to spare Solas’s friend, Wisdom, from the torture and corruption and death she had been subjected to previously. Perhaps even more good had come of it: the former-Circle Mages were chastised, and now they would be in a position to learn and grow in a new tradition. Yet even this, which was not so dark, still sat heavy on her shoulders and in her chest.

Solas had spared them. Solas had thought of her, in the midst of his rage and his grief, and he had spared them. More than that, he had shown them a kind of mercy she would never have expected of him. For as much as he loved to teach the willing, he had told her himself that he was tired of teaching those who did not want to be taught, fighting for those who did not want to be fought for. Yet that was exactly what he had offered these foolish mages, who would have certainly called him fool and madman for his beliefs about Spirits.

He had given them this mercy, given them this chance, to repent. To prove themselves.

He was listening to her.

He had _changed_.

Ixchel wept for a long time, eventually migrating into Cassandra’s arms. Bull lay a large hand on her back, and they sat in silence while she cried.

“We must hurry to Val Royeaux,” she croaked at last. “We will speak to Gaspard’s people at first light, and then we must depart. Blackwall… His real name is Thom. He was a captain in Gaspard’s army, and he was ordered to attack one of Celene’s financial supporters. He found out that the man’s wife and children would be present at the assassination, but he didn’t tell his men—he told them to kill everyone on sight. And they did. Gaspard left them out in the cold, and Thom ran—but one by one, his men have been hunted down for treason and murder…and now another one has been found. And Thom…” She sobbed. “He’s gone to take the man’s place, to try and spare him.”

Cassandra pulled away from Ixchel and held her at arm’s length. “Is…is the man even a Warden?!”

Ixchel sighed. “He was meant to be. But the Warden who was supposed to support his joining died.”

“You let him go, Sunshine?” Bull asked.

“I told Josie and Leliana… I think he’ll interrupt the execution. We’ll have him taken into custody, and then buy him out. I don’t care.” Ixchel sniffed and hiccupped pathetically. “I couldn’t convince him of his own words! That the Wardens are honorable, despite whatever sordid things are in their past… No matter the background, it’s not too late to do better…” She sniffled again. “You all were so willing to support me, but he refused to let me support him!”

A new wave of tears burst out of her, and she fell into her own hands again.

“A man who truly aspired to be righteous would not lie,” Cassandra muttered. “He would earn respect, not steal the respect due another.”

“Isn’t that what he did?!” Ixchel demanded. She pushed at Cassandra vehemently. “Has he not saved our lives? Has he not worked tirelessly? Has he not defended the innocent? Who cares what armor he wears? Are you so easily swayed by titles—”

Bull grabbed her as she continued to beat at Cassandra with limp fists. “Sunshine,” he said in a low rumble. “Where’s Chuckles?”

“He…” She waved her hands. “Everything he’s seen lately, it’s been hard. After Valorin, after these mages—he needed some time to dream, to reflect on…better times… I guess…”

“Seems like they chose a bad time to go run from their personal demons, Sunshine.” Bull pulled her closer and rubbed soothing circles up her back.

Cassandra, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes. “These mages you brought back were also turning to blood magic? For what reason! Inquisitor, if you have recruited—”

“They were being chased by Venatori… They were going ot summon a powerful spirit and enslave it to defend them. There are powerful ones here—rare ones—Faith, Glory, Wisdom…it would have killed it.” She held her hands out for Cassandra and clutched at the Seeker’s arm. “I know _that’s_ nothing you disapprove of on principle.”

The Seeker stiffened. “You are correct,” she said, “though perhaps I regret the way in which you say it…”

“Spirit or flesh, no one should be a slave to another’s will,” Ixchel said. “I don’t blame you. But this was not blood magic, is what I mean to impress… It was just something that broke Solas’s heart.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t kill them, honestly,” Bull said.

She glanced up at him. “I thought he was going to,” she admitted.

“Did you stop him?” Cassandra asked. “If these mages were about to do something so unforgivable in your eyes… Why would you?”

Ixchel groaned. “I would take Blackwall back into our ranks freely! I honor the Wardens! If we killed everyone who trespassed against us, we would never have tales of redemption, Cassandra!”

“Do you think that Chevalier you wiped the floor with will redeem himself?” Bull asked. “Just curious.”

“No.”

“But there’s a chance, huh?” He snorted. “That why you spared him? What if he goes and cuts the ears off the elves of a whole other alienage, out of misplaced revenge?”

Ixchel pushed herself to her feet and shoved Bull away from her. “If I were to live my life like that, I should kill each and every mortal being I meet!” she snapped. “You! You, Hissrad? Isn’t there a chance one of your orders will be to kill me? If I operated that way, I should kill you, no matter your use—no matter how good I believe you are—no matter how much—” Tears filled her eyes again and she swayed on her feet.

Bull put out a hand to steady her.

“Easy there, _sataareth_ ,” he said gently. “I’m not doubting your judgment. Just making sure you question your choices.”

“I never _stop_ , Bull,” she retorted. “That’s why I’m called _Inquisitor_.”

Cassandra burst out laughing despite herself. “Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with both hands. But Ixchel snorted and sat back heavily on the ground, and a few wet chuckles escaped her, too.

“It was a good one, wasn’t it?”

She put her head back in her hands. “But like I said,” she whispered, “everyone leaves, and I can’t stop them.”


	53. Chapter 55 Excerpt

Ixchel stood in the snow of the Emprise and looked across the ravine at Judicael’s Crossing at Solas. He was shrouded all in black. His clothes were in tatters. His head was draped in a loose black hood, and his face was half-covered with a black scarf. At his shoulder was a wolf pelt—black, again.

He extended his hand, and not out of her own volition, she raised her hand to mirror him.

The light of the Anchor flared in her hand, and she looked down and found that out of the swirling lines of the mark were beginning to form the impression of the foci—and then it became solid, and she held Fen’Harel’s foci.

It was heavy and full of power. Its carved circuity glowed red, and it sang with the sickly-sweet-sad song of the Blight. It sang for Solas.

Would she give it to him, with all the taint it contained?

The ravine in front of her seemed to be growing ever wider.

“Come home,” she called out to him. Her voice was whipped away on the wind, and she could not be sure if he heard her. She did not know if this were a dream conjured from her subconscious mind or a vision with meaning or a true interaction with her lost friend in the Fade. “Come home and ask me.”

In her hand, the foci cracked.

The ensuing explosion woke her straight from her dream.

The Anchor was calm in her hand, and the morning was quiet around her. She took a deep breath, and she closed her eyes again. But there was a knock on her door a moment later.

“Your Worship,” Cassandra called. “You have a visitor.”


	54. Chapter 57 Excerpts

Over the course of the night, Ixchel discovered that beneath Fenris’s fringe were three dots of lyrium pressed into his forehead. She studied the markings and guessed they were some bastardized interpretation of ancient vallaslin, possibly to June or Elgar’nan, though she didn’t speak her thoughts aloud. He said he would learn what she liked, if she showed him; he praised her in language he knew, in the ways he was familiar. It was the language of pets, of slaves and child servants. Such a thing wouldn’t have sat well with her if it had been anyone else, but his deeply-satisfied groans of “good girl” pleased her more deeply than she could have anticipated.

Many times, they found themselves curled against one another’s sticky form beside the fire, wading out of a dream and into each other’s arms again with insistent touches and searching kisses. But at last, Ixchel fell into a deep, deep sleep, and entered the Fade.

She found Solas waiting for her.

He was still at a distance, obscured as if by a snowstorm, or by the melting air of the desert, but she heard him speak:

“Lethallan, I am returning soon.”

“I miss you,” she called back, but her voice was so angry that she surprised herself.

The Fade trembled, but he didn’t rise to her anger. He simply replied:

“And I you.”

And like that, he was gone, and she was falling into the slipstream of dark unconsciousness once again.

-:-:-:-:-

“I get them too,” she said. She crawled back to her place beside him and stretched out again, careful not to touch him. “Very often, in fact.”

He nodded into his hands. “I could tell from looking at you. The anger. The pain.”

Ixchel rolled on to her back and ran a finger idly along the scar that bisected her chest, from a Sentinel in the Arbor Wilds, while they both breathed in silence. _The anger,_ she thought to herself, and reflected on the anger she had felt in her dream. It still coiled, pulsing and hot, in her throat—enough to make her grit her teeth.

It was not often that she allowed herself to be angry directly at Solas. She knew that, like love, it was a useless tactic in the war she was waging against his obstinate and doomed world view; loving him, and raging at him, were the two swiftest ways to drive him from her side and make him reject her efforts on reflex. More often, she found herself latching onto similar-enough anger and channeling it into speeches made within earshot of him.

_Mar solas ena mar din._

But she _was_ angry. She was angry that he had turned her into this dark, twisted woman who denied herself everthing she wanted because of her duty. She was angry that he had made her aware of such terrible world-ending secrets. Once, she had wanted children of her own. Once, she had wanted to apply to the universities in Orlais on one of Celene’s rare scholarships. Once, her highest aspiration had been to wear the vallaslin of a Dalish Clan and provide for her people in little ways: hunting, singing, translating. All that had been lost in the face of the two apocalypses he had brought upon her world. Even now, guilt ate at her for dallying here and satiating her more fanciful desires—guilt he had placed in her with his ever-looming threat in the back of her mind.

She had been angry at Dorian, but _he_ wasn’t the one who had ruined her life.

She was angry that she couldn’t allow herself to be angry at Solas.

Ixchel offered him a thin smile and raised her hand in his direction. He took it in one of his own and contemplated it wearily. His face was thin and gaunt in the light of his tattoos, and she wanted to trace the lines of his face again, kiss him, but she could tell from the ginger way he held her hand that he still ached.

“Fen,” she said softly, to call his eyes to her face. “I have something to tell you.”


	55. Chapter 60 Excerpts

Ixchel sat in Vivienne’s boudoir for nearly half the day, fawned over by hairdressers and tailors and make up artist. Her other companions wandered in and out throughout the day with their own appointments.

Cullen was first, and the most fidgety; the Commander was allowed to keep his mantle, and he wore a billowing white shirt beneath, which was then draped with the same red-and-gold tabards that usually hung from his breastplate. He was not allowed the safety blanket of his armor, but this would hopefully be familiar enough.

Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne had matching burgundy dresses with high necks, tight bodices, and slits up the thigh; Vivienne wore stunning white leggings beneath, lined with jewels, and Leliana wrapped her long legs in criss-crossing black ribbons. Ixchel could imagine there were seventy-five assorted knives hidden somewhere beneath them, each carefully positioned for easy access. Josephine bypassed the leggings and allowed her beautiful, tanned skin to speak for itself. Each woman wore a golden sash affixed with a horn brooch carved in the shape of the Inquisition’s brand. Josephine did her hair up with gold ribbons, Vivienne had produced a stunning headpiece, and Leliana wore a headscarf embroidered subtly with birds.

Bull was fitted with a fine jacket of red with burnished leather harness. His tent-like, brightly colored trousers were swapped for white. He had also been given horn balm, which he was loudly grateful for. Varric’s appointment was at the same time, and his normal open-chested red silk outfit was only slightly modified before he was given the word of approval. Dorian had conjured up a flowing set of robes, also in varying shades of red, with a sparkling silverite mail underneath. He swung by only to get in the way of Ixchel’s preparations, and to offer her wine.

When Solas turned up for his appointment, Ixchel was in the middle of getting her eye makeup applied. The artist was quick to dig her fingers into Ixchel’s cheek as soon as she noticed the twitch of her ear in Solas’s direction. “Ah-ah!” the Orlesian hissed. “Eyes shut.”

Ixchel’s fingers tightened in her lap, and then she abruptly relaxed, remembering that they had just been painted—how many hours before? Had they dried yet?

“Ah-ah!”

“Sorry,” Ixchel muttered.

She heard Solas chuckle somewhere behind her, and she chewed the inside of her cheek in frustration to bite back all the things she wanted to say. She had not seen him since he had left her upon the Exalted Plains, and to say that she was anxious was like saying a High Dragon was related to a gurgut. _Of course they were,_ but there was a massive understatement of scale there, at the very least. Her heart pounded in her throat and in the vein in her neck, and she desperately wanted to blurt out an apology for her dalliance with Fenris. She wanted to apologize for seemingly drawing more worshipers to her feet with her title. She wanted to ask him for advice about the night. She wanted to warn him about the massive racist backlash she was dreading after the situation at the city gate. She wanted to inquire about his travels.

And she also wanted to see what he was being forced into, because she wanted to know who was to blame for that damn hat last time.

 _“Th’ea?”_ Solas asked over her shoulder.

Her ears twitched. _“G’t’lom,”_ she muttered.

He chuckled. _“Ane ir’ina’lan’ehn.”_

“Beauty is pain,” Ixchel replied darkly. “So I’m told.”

“Eyes closed ‘til the liner dries,” her artist said. “Now hush. Let me do your lips.”

Solas laughed again and left the room with a rustle of clothes.

At least, Ixchel hoped, he seemed to be in good humor.

-:-:-:-:-

All eyes turned to her as she entered.

She tried not to smile too giddily, tried not to even look at them as she strode into the courtyard. She passed by the fountain at the center and approached her advisers, and she heard Varric murmur:

“Oh, _Sunshine_.”

She looked up against her better instincts and found herself paralyzed under the weight of their gazes.

Cullen had his hand pressed to his chest, as though to ensure that his heart remained firmly behind his ribs. Josephine had clasped her hands tightly in front of her mouth to hide her beaming smile, but Leliana made no effort to hide her satisfied smirk. Cassandra’s face was red, but the barest hint of a smile played on her lips as she lowered her defensive shawl ever-so-slightly.

Bull’s eye was scrutinizing, and his expression thoughtful as he no doubt tried to identify the symbolism Vivienne had crafted into her appearance for the evening. In front of Bull, Dorian had not swooned as Ixchel had expected, but rather stood stock still, staring at her intently. When her eyes landed upon him, he drew his chin up ever so slightly and took a deep, steadying breath. Then, there was Varric, who had drawn her eye; his look was so full of awe and inspired adoration, it made her heart ache. She was reminded of his abashed admission that he really did think she might have been sent by Andraste, that she really was the Hero of Thedas.

At last, her gaze fell upon Solas.

He stood with Varric and Cole (Cole, dressed in his usual armor, was looking at her like one might look at a newborn foal) slightly off to the side. Unlike most of her companions, who were dressed primarily in red, he had somehow been outfitted mostly in white—and his outfit, though fine, seemed far more understated than any of theirs. Ixchel realized with some displeasure that he had likely chosen such a differentiation in order to increase the chances of being mistaken as her servant. He wore a flowing white shirt whose billowing sleeves clasped at the wrist with golden cuffs, and he had a high-necked gorget of similar color and make that she recognized _surely_ as a piece of ancient Arlathani armor. Atop it, he wore a long, sleeveless surcoat of pale amber fabric, belted at the waist with a red sash. His legs were wrapped tightly in fine black cloth, and he, too, had foregone shoes in lieu of foot wrappings. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders square, and his head held high as he drank in the sight of her, and when their eyes met, she found that his contained an intensity she had been afraid to see.

Fen’Harel, it seemed, was her guest tonight.


	56. Chapter 63 Excerpts

Ahead, light flared—and the song of Fenris’s lyrium swelled.

“Fire!”

That was Solas’s voice.

What sounded like half a dozen bows _twanged_ , followed by the sickening and wet thuds of arrows meeting their mark. Vivienne bent the Veil around herself and shot forward through the Fade, reappearing in the next courtyard with her short divining rod in one hand and a gleaming white energy blade in the other.

She turned her head and caught a target in her sights, and she leaped into battle. Ixchel and Dorian hurried after her.

They stepped out into the courtyard and found Solas, Fenris, and Vivienne engaged with a huddle of spellbinders and rogues. Archers—allied, apparently—were positioned in the windows above the courtyard. Ixchel had no time to make any real observations, because a harlequin jumped down from a rooftop and landed heavily beside her. The fall had clearly winded them, but they spun out their leg to try and trip her while they had the opening.

Ixchel jumped high and struck out with her foot as she came down. She caught the harlequin’s mask and sent it clattering; as her first foot touched the ground, she snapped her hips, swung her weight around, and kicked upwards again. This time, her foot connected with her opponent’s jaw.

Hard.

There was a sickening crack as the man’s neck twisted and snapped, and he slumped to the ground.

Ixchel hopped lamely on one foot and hissed in displeasure. She was not used to such maneuvers without heavy boots on.

She waited uselessly while Dorian peppered the Venatori from afar and Vivienne, Solas, and Fenris engaged the last remaining enemies on their side of the courtyard. She knew Dorian had been right to tell her to hang back, but the adrenaline that raced through her begged her to introduce her steel to some flesh.

At last, the last formerly-Venatori-icicle burst into meaty shards, and the mages let their barriers fall.

Ixchel raced forward. “How long has this assault gone for?” she demanded. “Are you alright? Why didn’t you send for me?”

Fenris and Solas both stepped toward her in unison, and then they looked at each other. A critical expression was mirrored on each of their faces, and Ixchel’s heart stopped.

Oh, what had she done?

“I… _did_ send for you,” Solas said after a beat. “One of the Ambassador’s scouts. Injured in the leg?”

Ixchel stared at him. “He—you—”

He sighed and glanced back at Fenris, then away. “I thought you would have realized, if the messenger called you _rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

Ixchel’s jaw dropped.

She didn’t know what to do with that. “You are too tricky for your own good,” she said at last. “You could have just told him to get me! That you were in danger! I got so caught up in getting him healed and safe… And I came as quick as I could anyway, of course…but I…” She faltered at the terribly fond look on both Fenris and Solas's faces. She swallowed, shook her head, and changed tactics. “What are you doing with Briala’s people?”

The two elves in front of her looked up at the archers. Fenris made a sharp gesture with one hand, and the shadowy figures melted away into their hiding places once more. “We were both sneaking around, looking for Venatori,” he said. “Pretty easy to realize they were taking out the servants quarters. Your apostate—” he said, referring to Solas with a tinge of chagrin “—sought out the ones he knew were agents of the Ambassador and got them organized. We’ve been drawing the Venatori through here all night to reduce their numbers.”

“We have not found any plans or incriminating evidence on any of the bodies we searched,” Solas said apologetically.

Ixchel let loose a long, slow breath, and she crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at all of their bare feet on the bloodied cobblestones. “Well, thank you,” she said. “I’m certain Briala would thank you, as well.” She looked up at the shadows where she hoped the archers still stood. “The Ambassador has not been able to escape the Grand Duke and his groping Chevaliers,” she offered them. “I do not believe she has been alerted to the danger you’ve faced. I will make sure she knows.”

There was no response.

“That body was a Council of Heralds emissary,” Vivienne said. She had Fade-stepped back to the main courtyard with the fountain to examine the murder scene, and returned. “Curious to find him there. And even more curious—this bears the crest of the Chalons.” She held out a dagger, twirling the shortened staff that was her divining rod in the other hand.

“It’s Florianne,” Ixchel said.

Vivienne’s eyebrows shot up. Solas looked to her with great interest.

Ixchel lifted one hand from where she had crossed her arms, and she gestured in the air. “Gaspard has been fighting all his life for this throne out of a sense of duty and honor, as a Chevalier. Highly unlikely Briala would ally with Tevinter, considering.” She gestured now sweepingly at the gathered elves. Then, she lowered her voice. “You know. Elves. Tevinter. But of course, she could try to frame Gaspard. I’d bet she would also implicate Celene in some way. But it’s Florianne, because Florianne put in all this work for the party, because she’s always been putting in this work for the empire, and _she_ has never been promised a throne—though for all her life, she’s lived in the shadow of a promise of a throne.”

“Hmm.” Vivienne considered it, then chuckled. “One _could_ always find her clinging desperately to the Empress’s skirts. Good for her, growing some claws.”

“Varric thinks that Gaspard and Celene both are supplying red lyrium to their battlemages,” Ixchel added. “So even if we unmask Florianne, we’ll still have a threat—but it could be an opportunity. I need to find Samson and Calpernia, and that might just be the way. But I need something on each of them, to make them amenable to my favors.”

Solas tipped his chin back appraisingly, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “Very astute, Inquisitor,” he said with a note of pride.

“To arms, Venatori!” a voice cried.

Fenris turned and charged without further ado.

“They are coming from the Grand Apartments!” Vivienne cried, and leaped into battle.

Ixchel reached for Solas’s arm and pulled him back away from the fray while Dorian took his place. She opened her mouth to speak, but the wrong words came out. “I missed you.”

His face hardly showed any indication that he had even heard her. His eyes searched her face as though he still waited for her to speak—as if he knew she regretted speaking and was giving her another chance.

She didn’t want another chance. She wanted him to respond.

Ixchel released him and gave in. “There’s something in those apartments, if they’re guarding it so carefully. Cover me.”

“Of course, lethallan.”

Ixchel bounced back on the balls of her feet, then launched herself forward. Solas’s barrier settled on her shoulders, and then a spray of lightning flew over her head to intercept several Venatori.


	57. Chapter 65 Excerpts

Ixchel dipped out of the ballroom and glided away in search of Solas. This time, she found him in a dark corner of the guest wing. He was standing loosely at attention as most of the serving elves did when they were trying to be ignored by the patrons of the night, but the moment Ixchel entered the room, her eyes were drawn to him by the self-satisfied smirk and dark gleam in his eye. Her mouth immediately went dry.

Nothing about his posture changed when she approached. His gaze grew half-lidded as he looked down at her, daring her closer, and she obeyed. They stood far too close for a servant and the Herald of bloody Andraste, but Ixchel was drawn to him by some magnetism that scared and thrilled her.

She held her whiskey in her left hand, with the Anchor, and held it up and slightly to the side with her elbow supported in the crook of her hip. She drew her other arm across herself, almost protectively, to rest her hand in her elbow. Weight all on one side, flat-footed—she dared him, too, to make a move.

She noted now how _similarly_ they were dressed. There was no mistaking her as anything but a figure of almost deific importance, yet he was so clearly dressed as a servant. She supposed it might have been his collar—Vivienne had been right to avoid one in Ixchel’s own outfit, and for his part, Solas had chosen the most collar-looking gorget imaginable. Yet now that they stood beside one another, and she looked him up and down, she couldn’t help but think that they were so very clearly a pair. He did not look the servant beside her. He wore his simplicity with elegance and grandeur; he was a leader in his own right. The confident, knowing air he projected seemed less out-of-place, then, when he was matched with her.

They gazed upon each other, and she wondered if _he_ knew that _she_ viewed him as a potentially hostile power whose services she needed. For she indeed needed his services, and she was, in fact, afraid that in his long absence he had set plans in motion that would ultimately oppose her own.

“I do adore picking apart the web of lies, sex, and murder that tie these events together,” he remarked at last. His lilting and untraceable accent lingered darkly on each word, and the corner of his mouth tipped upward in a more honest smile. “Have you gotten caught up in it, Inquisitor? Or have you untangled it all already?”

“The goal is to have it all wrapped around my finger, isn’t it?” she mused. She turned her head pointedly at her glass. “I can’t dally. I have some Chevaliers to commiserate with.”

Solas chuckled. “I see now why you’re partaking of the stiffer stuff.”

She swirled her glass. “Two things, before I run,” she said. “Have the lower quarters been pacified?”

“Quite. Our new friends seem well-equipped now to face whatever might wander in that direction.”

“This is too easy.” She sighed; the shift in her posture sent her glass tingling, and her skirt swaying, and Solas’s eyes roaming. Ixchel did her best to ignore it. “I can’t believe that they only sent _a lot of people._ As if that would thwart us.”

“There was quite the militia,” Solas noted. “You did not see the full extent of their forces before you disappeared. It _could_ be that they thought it was enough.”

Ixchel shook her head. “I just have a bad feeling,” she murmured. “So the second thing: it would comfort me greatly to have you and Fenris go ahead of me to the royal wing. Once my work with the soldiers is done, the Ambassador and I will be headed that way. I imagine it is a dangerous place this evening, so try only to gather information and not be seen.”

“It will be done,” he replied quietly.

He surprised her by reaching out to tilt her chin up to look at him again. His touch burned, and the intensity of his gaze made her innards twist far too pleasantly for her own good. “There is more on your mind, _lethallan_ ,” he breathed as he inspected her features. “Are you nervous to speak with the knights and their knives?”

“Not very.” She whetted her lips with her tongue just so she could coax the slightest flicker of interest on his face. “I just…I regret we haven’t had a chance to speak before this. I’ve wanted to all night.”

His brow creased. “There may be time now?” he queried.

“There’s too much!” she protested. “Are you alright? Where did you go? Is Wisdom safe? Something has changed about you, and—”

Solas had started to look at her very fondly, and somewhat sadly, and it robbed Ixchel of any words she had remaining. His knuckle was still beneath her chin, and as she swallowed nervously, he shifted to cup her cheek in his wide, warm palm.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked in a whisper.

And then she took a step back. She drew her arms tighter around herself, causing the scales on her arms to rasp like the movements of a dragon itself. She let her eyes fall to his chest instead of his face, because the look he wore _hurt_. “That’s what’s on my mind, Solas,” she said. “As well as the stability of Orlais, and thwarting the Elder One, and establishing a new world order where Compassion is once again doctrine…” Ixchel took a deep breath, brow knit with concern and apology as she looked up at him. “I should go.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes from hers, even as he tucked his hands behind his back once more. “You have many important matters vying for your attention. Let me put one to rest.” He leaned forward, just slightly. “I am not upset with you, Ixchel.”

She responded immediately, eyes closed, earnest. “I trust you."

When she opened them, he was gone.


	58. Chapter 71 Excerpt

Josephine fixed her hair to give herself something to do while she worried, but Ixchel had nothing else to occupy herself with. She opened her shaking palm to stare at the Anchor and tried to see the spiraling marks of the foci that had seared it into her, tried to trace them out on her skin. She had removed her decorative talons and her vambraces and pushed up her sleeve, because the Anchor felt slightly better against the cool air, but still it burned. It was only going to be a matter of time before she needed to discharge it again, or else it would discharge itself.

She closed her eyes and curled her fist and tried to spread out her awareness of that magic in her arm, in the air. She had been able to sense Solas more and more often via the Anchor, but she still wasn’t sure how, and she didn’t know if it were a two-way street. But it was about the last hope she had of determining if he was even in the city.

Nearly as soon as she began to focus, she felt him.

She looked up in the direction of the alienage and found him walking up the promenade toward her. He was, like most of them, still dressed as he had been at the ball. But he was significantly more blood- and soot-streaked than he had been before, or, frankly, than Ixchel had expected him to be. A not-insignificant part of her thought he had taken advantage of Briala’s preoccupation to steal the eluvians from her again, and that he had been coordinating with some unknown lieutenants in his network, or otherwise putting his plot in motion.

Ixchel struggled to her feet and limped toward him as quickly as she could. A relieved smile spread across his face at the sight of her. But then his gaze dropped to her arm, and he hurried to close the space between them.

Whatever relief there was to be had upon seeing one another was ruined by the exhaustion and fear they both clearly felt.

“The Anchor—were you using it all night?” His voice was strained, and her overwhelming guilt was almost supersceded by her annoyance at being reminded of how guilty she felt.

They did not embrace when they met at last, in the center of the promenade. He took her hand and ropped to one knee to inspect the Anchor at close-range. The sharp breath he sucked in through his teeth informed her that, perhaps, the situation was more urgent than she had allowed herself to admit. When he began to coax the Anchor’s reaching tendrils back into her palm, the relief was so sudden and welcome that she had to put her other hand on his shoulder to steady herself and keep her knees from giving way.

“Y-yeah,” she admitted shakily. “I got separated from everyone.”

“Tch. You mean you ran off from everyone,” he chided. He glanced up from the magic that was unraveling her arm, and she recalled the same intense fondness he had shown her with his fingers on her chin at the ball. His gaze had coaxed something soft and vulnerable from her then—but everything that was soft and vulnerable about her _hurt_ now.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be mocking me,” she retorted. “You did, too.”

He glanced up at her again through his lashes. “That’s correct. I followed the Red Templars.”

“You _what.”_ She dug her fingers into his shoulder. “Samson is _dangerous,_ Solas. More dangerous than you can possibly—” At the look of amusement he spared her, she bared her teeth. “You got hurt. Where? How badly?”

“So did you.” With one hand, he touched one of her leg wrappings. “We were made for the halls of emperors, not such urban battlefields,” he murmured. Then, he returned to the Anchor.

Ixchel could feel it finally withdrawing its hooks from the muscles of her shoulder and chest, melting back out of her bones and down her arm. It was a strange and deeply uncomfortable feeling that left her incredibly weak.

“What happened to _you,”_ he countered, “all night? Besides playing at Andraste for the humans.”

The diamond-edge to his voice glittered, and her jaw tightened as it cut deep.

“What, my deeds haven’t been sung from the rooftops quite yet?” she asked harshly. “Do you think I style myself as a god for what I want to inspire in others?” She straightened up as best she could with her arm still clutched between his hands.

“They all _but_ sing it.” His thin smile suddenly had a vicious slant to it; they were somehow back where they had been that strange night at Suledin Keep, where he had seemed to be testing her in some way—assessing her with suspicion. Then, she felt as though she had passed.

Now, she felt that she had walked into a trap. And she thought that he resented her for it.

“In the alienage, they talk of renaming this promenade _‘the Herald’s Way.’”_

Ixchel tugged at her arm again, overcome by the discomfort and the pain and the sudden need to be far away from him. “Are you—” She couldn’t tell if it were a falsification or something he had genuinely overheard, but either way, it was clear what he was trying to imply. And it _hurt._

She was so tired of _hurting_ that it made her furious. Her eyes burned, and her throat burned, and now her anger had been stoked alongside her worry and dread. It roared in her chest and face as she stared him down. “Honestly, after last night, maybe I am one! Because I fucked up, and I wasn’t there for my people, and that sounds like all the gods _I_ know of.”

Solas did not look at her. He still had not released her arm; she could feel its draw down from her elbow now. Perhaps he pulled too quickly on the magic, or perhaps it was the strength of her emotion, or perhaps it was simply that the Anchor was so unstable, but it sent a particularly vicious lance of pain deep into her chest. She covered her mouth with her other hand and shuddered, silent, until the pain had passed/

The viciousness in him wavered only briefly at her pain before it returned.

Well, if he wanted to be cruel, she would save him the trouble and do it all herself.

“I should have seen it coming,” she said through her teeth. “I know what cruel monsters Chevaliers are, win or lose. I should have seen it because Orlais was still going to be Orlais by the end of the night, and there was no way there wasn’t going to be some sort of reprisal in the alienage.”

He continued to stare down at the cursed mark in her hand, at its murderous undoing of her, thread by painful thread.

“This was as much a strike against me as it was an inevitable backlash against the city elves,” she said, her hoarse voice rising with her mounting frustration. “I’ve eluded the Nightmare, and I took Envy and Imshael away from Corypheus, and I’ve disrupted so much of his red lyrium for his Templar army—he’s run out of ways to hurt me so now he’s going after all the people I can’t protect because _I’m not a god, Solas!”_

His face was as stormy as she had ever seen it, and his eyes were dark and deep as a troubled ocean. “As long as people are free, they are free to be cruel. _That_ is the gamble of sentience. _Is. It. Not?”_

He punctuated each word with as much bitter vitriol as if he stabbed her with every breath, and he released her hand at last. Ixchel reeled back, hand clutched to her chest, and she stared at him in horror. The Evanuris before her—genuflecting on one knee—slowly unfolded himself to his full height while she contemplated the implications of his words with a mounting sense of horror.

Empathy was the enemy of cruelty, and it was her weapon of choice. But Imshael was _right._ Empathy was the enemy of free will. It overcame the selfishness that was inherent in cruelty of every form, the insulation of it, by negating the self entirely: empathy placed the self into the world, so that even the selfish choice to aide became selfless. In practicing it, one inherently fell under the geas of _the other_. No wonder the world resisted its presence.

Imshael was right, on every count.

_Futile._

Ixchel looked up at Solas with a sense of betrayal and despair she had only known once before.

_Why fight? Why even try? None of it will ever make a difference._

She clenched her fists against the pain of her heart being ripped out of her chest yet again, and she raised her chin defiantly. “And in this comparison to the Evanuris, where do you _expect_ me to fall, Solas?”

“What do _you_ expect?” Solas asked. His voice had not lost its edge, and if he saw the effect his words had on her, he did not relent. “There will be places you cannot be. There will be people you cannot protect. There will be those you cannot inspire. You are the leader of an _organization._ At some point, you must trust that. The only other option is _total control.”_

What remained of her skirts and her scales rattled from how tightly her rage and grief gripped her. She stared up at him and breathed heavily through her teeth and bit back all the things she wanted to say:

_So what have you chosen, Fen’Harel?_

_How did you dispel the rumors of your divinity, Fen’Harel?_

_How’d that work out?_

_Tell me the truth, Fen’Harel._

Ixchel felt the world lurch as a gaping emptiness filled her in all the deep places the Anchor had reached. She closed her eyes and pressed it against her chest, and she breathed, and she tried to remember something that had once given her hope. She tried to remember the thing that had convinced her he could be redeemed, and that a better world was possible: a wash of powerful magic…the impression of welcome…slaves fleeing, greeted by other freed slaves, tending to one another’s wounds.

_Fen’Harel bids you welcome… Rest, knowing the Dread Wolf guards you, and his people guard this valley. In this place, you are free. In trusting us, you will never be bound again._

_He takes no divine mantle and asks that none be bestowed upon him… He leads only those who would help willingly. Let none be beholden but by choice._

“I expect this to be difficult,” she said at last. “I’ve told you, so many times, Solas: I can’t do this alone. I can’t keep _choosing_ to put my trust and faith in others, alone. It only takes one misstep to put me on one of the two other paths: the one Corypheus is on, and the one I’ve already tried.” She opened her eyes. “One tastes like the Blight, and one tastes like deathroot.”

She saw Varric, Dorian, and Vivienne walking out of the alienage behind Solas, and she took another deep breath. She looked Solas dead in the eye.

“I am working on trust,” she said slowly.

His face was inscrutable, and he did not offer any insight into his thoughts. She showed trust in the only way she knew how at the moment: she turned her back, and she went to do her duty.


	59. Chapter 72

They joined a group of young people, some apostate mages among them, in blasting a series of holes in the wall from top to bottom. Bottles of bootleg liquor were passed around freely, and though there was no dancing on the wall itself, taverns on both sides of the wall threw open the doors for revelers.

They danced freely with one another to tunes no hall of the Empress had ever heard. Fenris and Bull spun her ‘round and ‘round; she and Varric danced on a table, and Dorian and Vivienne each dance-dueled her to the delight of those gathered.

Ixchel sang the song about Sera, which everyone already knew the lyrics to—apparently Maryden had indeed known her in Val Royeaux before moving toe Skyhold—and taught them _Scout Lace Harding._

After a night of tragedy, there was a night of utter release for Halamshiral.

Ixchel thought she heard Sera’s voice in the distance several times, singing terribly rhyming songs about knickers and nug-fuckers and chevaliers. But as the night drew on, Ixchel was drawn to Varric. Neither of them drank very much; it seemed she was not the only one who hadn’t eaten anything other than the finger-foods at the ball. Perhaps that was why he told her every story he could think of that had nothing to do with the business in Kirkwall, instead of actually talking about what was haunting him.

But as the chaos began to wind down, there was no avoiding it.

They walked the perimeter of the wall, past isolated groups still trying to take down sections of it, marking swathes of it in graffiti and murals. And Varric told her of Anders.

“You see a lot of fucked up shit when you’re not at the highest vantage point,” Varric said in a choked voice, “but you just don’t get used to seeing the kids die.”

Ixchel wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and they walked back to the promenade to reconvene with Bull, Dorian, and Fenris. Vivienne had vanished into the night.

“C’mon, Broody.” Varric traded Ixchel’s company for Fenris, and he joined Bull and Dorian as they headed back to their lodgings in the upper quarter.

Which left Ixchel with Solas, right back where they had left off hours before.

There were a great number of bonfires at the base of the alienage wall, and they cast Solas in strange, shifting shadows as he drew closer. She had been surprised to find him joining in with them in their wandering and revelry, and every time she allowed herself to steal a glance his way she’d found him engaged with their companions.

 _Things are different,_ she tried to tell her hazy brain, but her aching, sleep-deprived mind fractured its hopeful meaning and reflected it in a kaleidoscope of twisted ways: he was different, and she didn’t know why; he was different, and he was dangerous; they were different, but she didn’t know if she wanted them to be the same; the world was different, and she didn’t know how to walk in it anymore; she was different, and she wasn’t sure it was better after all.

Now he stood in front of her, framed against a backdrop of flaming walls, and he was her ancient Elvhen god, and he was a mystery and a myth and a man. She was both relieved and aggrieved to feel that the magnetism that pulled them together had not changed. But in that moment, she did not even want him to be her erstwhile lover.

After her terrible night, after all her guilt, after all the sharp tension that had arisen between them, she simply missed her friend.

In the haze that her exhaustion cast across her vision, it seemed that his face was soft and sad. Perhaps the strange, almost antagonistic shadow over them had passed.

 _“Ir abelas, lethallan._ I did not mean to quarrel,” he said gently. “I have been afraid for you, and I ran to leave that fear behind, only for it to return in far greater force when I returned.”

“You’ve _been_ running,” she accused.

Hesitation flickered over his face, and she clutched her hands to her chest to bodily restrain herself from reaching for him, holding on to him in case he ran again. She wanted to cover her mouth like a child to refrain from scaring away what she sensed was a rare moment of honesty between them. But they had been there, before, too—and he had run from it each and every time, and she _hurt_ and—oh yes, she was tired of hurting.

She glared up at him in silent accusation and hoped that was enough.

Solas exhaled slowly; his breath frosted the air between them. When he spoke next, his voice was no less gentle, but there was a strength to it that seemed a response to her doubts. “Yes,” he said. “I have.”

A slight twitch of his ear was the only tell that he was waiting for her to respond. She stubbornly pressed her lips together; she did not trust herself to read him when there was a constant blur around his edges, when there was such strain on her heart. It was his turn.

He glanced up at their long shadows, entwined together behind her on the blood-stained marble of the promenade. She saw the light reflected in his eyes, and the dancing darkness.

“You have been so patient,” he continued at last. “I have been trying to determine some way to show you what that means to me. For now, the best gift I can offer is…the truth.”

He fell silent for a moment, breathing and considering the path laid before him, and she found that she held her breath in anticipation. It seemed that all the light in the world served to frame his figure; the wind’s only purpose was to push him closer to her, but neither of them moved.

“You have become important to me—more important than I could have ever imagined.”

The night went very still around them. She suddenly could not look at him, but the thought of missing any important tells, any signs of his dangerous thoughts, was more painful than looking at his face. So she blinked up at him like a startled halla, frozen and afraid. The golden leaves on her shoulders shivered.

“You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade.” He huffed a short, quiet laugh at himself. “I considered myself to be the last of my People…walking as a Dreamer might in a world of Tranquil. But time and again you have shown me that you carry the embers of Elvhenan in your spirit. Where you walk, flames catch.”

His voice had become full and lilting—not so unlike the distant string music of Celene’s orchestra—and it robbed her of breath. She pressed the hand that held the Anchor to her chest and tried to feel her heart beat to reassure herself that she was alive, and she found it thundering with such panic that her chest hurt. She could not help but hear the same soft voice with which he spoke to her in front of an eluvian, eyes aglow with a divinity she had never known before or since.

“I have been afraid for you,” Solas said. “You embody so much of what I once wished for myself…ideals that I held, and abandoned, and forgot. I know where the pursuit of those ideals led me, and I have feared that you might be broken by them as I have been broken.”

“What is there to lose, really?” she asked him hoarsely.

Solas fixed her with a look then of such ancient bitterness and enigmatic humor that she would never forget. “My pride,” he told her with a self-deprecating smile, but it faded quickly. “You.”

She held out her unharmed hand, and he took it in both of his own. He was warm, almost hot to the touch despite the chill of the night, and as he ran his thumbs across the back of her hand he spread fire up her arm.

“Death would be your freedom from this impossible burden. Death, Tranquility, to release yourself from the consequences of your failures or the exhausting knowledge of your futility,” he said, as evenly as he could to soften the blow.

“And the pride of being _right_ that the world is not worth saving would protect you from the pain of yours,” she replied.

“I have been afraid for you,” Solas said, softer each time he said it. “What you would attempt, what you want the world to do, is impossible. The higher you climb, the more hope I have—and the further there is for both of us to fall, Ixchel. I spent much of my time away contemplating whether to dissuade you or encourage you.”

Ixchel curled her fingers around his wrist. His pulse fluttered beneath her touch, drummed urgently in his veins. He kept her hand in his own, but raised one to caress the blossoms now tangled hopelessly in her hair. There was no smile in his eyes at the sight, none of the fondness the crown had invoked that night at Suledin Keep.

“But for as much as I have been afraid for you, I have also been afraid _of_ you. ‘For all you shall serve, and for all you shall lead.’ Do you not think that the Evanuris, those respected leaders, generals, elders, did not once swear similarly to their People? But even Mythal, the All-Mother, placed the vallaslin on hers.”

Ixchel thought something slid into place within her: a missing piece she had been searching for for so long. The shape of it surprised her, but once she examined it, it had been foolish of her to overlook it. She had been very foolish of late, it seemed. She felt, as she gazed into his gray eyes, that she finally saw him clearly.

“‘Who watches the watchers?’” she echoed.

He could not seem to help the slight, sad smile that played on his lips again.

 _“I_ did, once.”

Her heart stopped beating for an interminable moment, and she thought, hysterically, that it would be utter irony, utter cruelty, for her heart to give out entirely and for her second lease on life to end right at the moment she might have been waiting for for so long.

“Everything I have told you of Elvhenan… I know it to be true because I lived it. Every worry I have for you is born from a thousand years of watching, fighting, despairing, as even the best of the Evanuris fall prey to the desire for control.”

He tightened his grip on her hands, an uncharacteristic tell of the weight of what he was about to say. Then he let her go entirely—leaving her free to flee, perhaps, in light of what he was about to reveal.

Ixchel had always _known_ the sorrow, the grief, the _age,_ in him, even when he had done his best to hide it. But now that he wanted her to see it, now that he had allowed himself to drop the mask, she saw the true extent to which it had swallowed him like the Void. She swayed in the face of its yawning depth, but she did not run.

“I sought to set my People free from slavery,” he said, barely audible above the roar of blood in her ears and the bonfires behind them. “I broke the chains of all who wished to join me, and the false gods called me ‘Fen’Harel’—an insult I took as a badge of honor.”

He searched her face, and she wondered if he recognized that she understood, she accepted. She hoped that he did. She did not flee, for she was not afraid of the Dread Wolf.

“When the Evanuris finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. My People fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down,” he continued, a harsh note of blame entering his voice. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed, and when I woke, still weak, a year ago, I found myself faced with the futility, the destruction, of my decisions. I sought a chance to undo it all, to restore my world.”

Her breath caught as the wind shifted. It blew smoke in their direction, tugged at his sleeves, sent her skirts swirling. It swept her away into dizzying panic: there it was—the truth, the truth, the hopeless truth—

“And then… I met you.”

The words began to pour from him ceaselessly as though they were an incantation:

“Here you stand, facing the same futile choices of the Evanuris. Here you stand, a rival to one who would claim godhood from those trapped in the Black City beyond the Veil.” He shook his head slowly at his own accusation. _“Telanadas,_ I have told you. But _this is_ the inevitability. We are an endless entropy towards self-destruction. And yet…”

Ixchel had been filled with a rising sense of dread at the steady pace of his words, as though they were hurtling toward the same disastrous conclusion they had arrived at once upon another lifetime.

“Yet here you stand, with _Felgaral Dir’vhen’an_ in your hair, and when faced with the futility of your mission, you do not act as gods do. You say you would not take choice away from the world either through slavery, or through destruction. And…I believe you.” His eyes glistened as he looked down at her. “You have even made me question my desire to restore my People.”

It was impossible that she had any tears left after all that she had gone through, and yet she felt her eyes prick once more. She blinked them away, for as much as she could through the fog of exhaustion, she wanted to memorize his features—the look of sincerity, the look of awe—and immortalize this impossible moment.

“That is what I spoke of, with the Wisdom that you saved,” he said in a voice that shook. “You have shown me that there is value in this world. For a while, I thought, though it may rob me of any joy I might take in my duty, it was no different a sacrifice than any other I have made in one hopeless battle after another.”

Ixchel heard two voices as he spoke, felt two overlaid hearts beat within her breast, felt the pain of two very different admissions cut into her breast. _Things are different,_ she tried to tell herself. _He has never been the monster he thinks he is. He’s trying to learn. He has never admitted fear before._

Things are different.

And so Ixchel forced herself to reach for him, the destroyer of more worlds than even he knew.

He allowed her to embrace his trembling frame. She rested her ear against his chest and heard his heart thundering in the cage of his ribs so hard it might escape them. Never more than now was he was a fearful creature trapped in her arms, and she dreaded the moment he might shake himself free to flee.

“But what _Pride_ is it,” he said above her head, “to believe I could take the fate of a world in my hands twice over? Though I would not style myself a ruler, I was seeking the very same control as the false gods I cast down. And so I ran from you, Ixchel, every time you have asked me to walk with you on a path of hope. Because to follow you would be to abandon my _din’an’shiral,_ and to look past my pride, and admit that I was no better than those I destroyed a world to defeat. Because even now I am afraid to put my fears aside and trust you.”

 _Ar lath ma,_ her heart cried, but that was not enough. It was a cheap and pale shadow of how his admission impacted her, and there was nothing she could say or do to communicate it.

“You were _solas_ first,” she said into his chest. “It was against your nature.”

He drew a sharp breath. Her own heart pressed against her ribs as she danced treacherously close to the truth. For now, he did not question her further.

Instead, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and pressed his cheek against her hair, careful of the Ardent Blossom. He took a steadying breath against the shivers that wracked his frame; But instead, he whispered, “Do you know how beautiful and broken you are?”

“No more so than the rest of the world,” she assured him.

He chuckled breathlessly. “I will not quarrel with you any more,” he agreed. “Perhaps you are right, and that is why I have named you _Rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

Ixchel tightened her hold on him and shifted to look up at him a little through her lashes. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Thank you for coming back.”

-:-:-:-:-

Solas spoke of his night as they walked back to their lodgings in the upper quarter. He had observed some of Briala’s people performing a drop in the exterior gardens and decided to pursue the lead into the servants’ quarters. Then, just as he had said, he had found the Venatori forces and the murdered servants and decided to stay and coordinate a defense against the assault. After that, he had scoured the guest wings with Fenris, and then had, in fact, returned upstairs for some time.

When he overheard the talk of her as a divine creature, speaking with the wisdom of the Maker himself and calling for a new world order, he had fled back to the gardens below the servants’ quarters to contemplate the very same matters they had just discussed in there here-and-now. That accounted for most of his absence in the night.

Then, Florianne had spoken of Corypheus and his motivations—and Solas had been well and truly shaken by the parallels he had heard to the Evanuris, and the temptation of power he feared Ixchel might fall prey to.

Then, after the speeches and the explosion, Ixchel had vanished into the alienage. Everyone split up to search for her, and he had found Samson and a small group of Templars fleeing through the city. He followed them at a distance, as he had said and saw them about to board a vessel. Solas had strayed too close, as he tried to find the name of the vessel so that Leliana might be able to later track its destination, and caught the attention of a Red Templar Shriek.

Samson, indeed, had proved to be a powerful combatant and Solas had resorted to some quite underhanded tactics before he fled. He had, in fact, spied the name of the ship. Then, he had spent the entire rest of the day treking back to Halamshiral.

When he entered the alienage he had found that the fires had been put out, the dead had been gathered and tallied, and the name of the Herald of Andraste was on the lips of every living being in the city. He had, indeed, heard that the people were already calling the promenade ‘The Herald’s Way,’ after the bloody footprints she had left in her wake. The sight of the Anchor’s progressed consumption had alarmed him such that, on top of all his other concerns, he had felt moved to confront her about his doubts.

 _In the most Solas way possible_ , she thought. A bit of goading, a temptation, a challenge while she was in her most fragile state to date, perhaps.

“‘One tastes like the Blight, and one tastes like deathroot,’” he murmured her words back to her now. “That was when I knew I must accept…you walk this path with open eyes. You deserve my trust, if not my faith.”

They walked together with Ixchel tucked under his arm, and his thumb rubbed warm circles against her shoulder as he spoke. Her hand was warm in the space just above his hip, and she felt shrouded and warm in his aura. After the harrowing night, her day of self-doubt, guilt, and regret, and the fraught conversations she’d had all evening—least of all with him—the utter security of his embrace was as welcome a relief as when he had pulled the Anchor’s magic out of her shoulder and back into her palm.

She was half-asleep against his shoulder when they reached their quarters. Ixchel didn’t even realize that he’d taken her to his room until the door closed behind them and she realized she wasn’t in her own suite. He peeled himself off of her and reached behind him to unclasp his gorget.

Ixchel found herself frozen in the daze of her exhaustion, and she looked shyly down at her bloody feet. Just the previous day, she had felt like a queen in her own right. Now, the sight of her finery—the golden leaves on her shoulders, the scales on her hips, the fine, soft Dalish banner weave and the pyrophite cuirass beneath—only made her wonder which Evanuris Solas really saw in her.

Solas’s warm, dry hands slipped beneath her chin to cup her face, his fingers curling behind her ears, and he tilted her face up to look at him. He had removed his shirt, and she saw that there were now angry red claw marks streaked across his abdomen and around his side. They had seen some healing magic, but they had gone deep. One of his arms had been burned as well. She was slightly more preoccupied by how low his leggings hung low on his lithe, bony hips.

“I expect that Cole may be nearby,” he murmured down to her. His breath was cool on her cheeks and lips. “Would you like me to find him for you, _lethallan?”_

She leaned into his palm, but she nodded. “Forgive me,” she replied.

He gave her a glittering smile. “I am not upset at you,” he said, even as he tucked a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear. Ixchel exhaled heavily and reached up to wrap her fingers around his wrist. It took every ounce of strength she had left to pull him off of her without kissing his palm, without following the long line of his arm to his broad shoulder, reaching for his hip—

But that was not what she _really_ wanted right now. She already had that, and she could not afford to be greedy.

Not after everything she had done to get here.

 _“Nuvas ema ir’enastela, lethallin,_ ” she said fervently. “I will not betray your trust.”

“No,” he replied. He swept his thumb across the back of her hand, but his eyes were full of something a little more potent. “I don’t think you will, Champion.” He released her and stepped a way to open the door for her again. “ _On nydha, Ixchel.”_


	60. Chapter 74

Ixchel took Solas with her to meet Briala. She wasn’t sure if it was wise or not, but she supposed that erring on the side of, “Better keep my eyes on him,” wasn’t the worst thing she could do to Fen’Harel.

She had sent a messenger ahead to warn Briala somewhat of their approach, and then she had changed into a slightly more presentable outfit—leather armor, breeches, a cloak, but her injured feet still bare—to meet the Marquise. It wasn’t as though Celene had snapped her fingers and found an empty mansion for Briala to occupy, and Ixchel didn’t think that Briala was dumb enough to make such a move after making it so clear that she was trying to earn the loyalty of the common people of Halmashiral. Instead, Briala had taken up residence in the upper floor of an inn not far from the promenade, and her messengers and agents milled about in a constant stream of comings and goings, along with representatives from the alienage and a handful of minor nobles, merchants, and artisans.

The entire upper floor was emptied when Ixchel arrived, and they were deposited upstairs to meet the Marquise privately.

“When I offered you use of the eluvians, I didn’t expect you to take me up _quite_ so soon,” Briala said, her back turned to her guests. She stood before a rather modest frame for an eluvian—hardly a carving upon it, barely gilded, and not much taller than they were.

“Neither did I,” Ixchel demurred. “I would not ask if I was not certain I needed them.”

Briala glanced back at her over her shoulder. “Hmm,” she mused. “You have been made familiar with eluvians, though I do not know how. And your companion?”

Ixchel didn’t look at Solas. He could lie better than she could, anyway.

“I have seen such things, in memories of Arlathan preserved in the Fade,” he said.

“Ah, then you, too, are a Dreamer.” Briala studied him closely. “A mentor of mine, who helped me rediscover the eluvian netowrk, spoke of how they might once have been used by our ancestors. The land beyond this mirror we believe to have been fabricated entirely by magic, set apart from both the Fade and the material world—and something about it seems to cause non-elves harm.”

Briala raised her hand to touch the sleeping glass. “We pass through the Crossroads regularly, so I will know if the network is disrupted, or if you interrupt any of our movements.”

“Fair enough,” Ixchel said. “Are many of your agents permitted through the eluvians, or only the most trusted?”

The Marquise smirked. “No one else knows the pass phrase,” she said. “I personally escort every agent through. It does not take very long, so why not see to it myself?” She turned back to the mirror. Her eyes sparkled behind her mask in her burnished reflection, and Ixchel smiled at the sight—because Briala, like she herself, still had not gotten over the awe at their ancestors’ magic.

 _“Fen’Harel enasal_ ,” Briala said, just loud enough for Ixchel and Solas to hear.

Solas startled slightly beside Ixchel, but Briala could not see it in the reflection, for the eluvian had come alive in a swirl of purples and blues and golds. When Ixchel glanced up at Solas, she found a strange look on his face—an uneven smile, a slight frown. A breath escaped him, but he did not look at her.

He stepped forward beside Briala.

“To pass through the eluvians…” He tilted his head back. “Or the few of them that are left…”

Briala looked up at him. “You are in for a treat, I think,” she said, and then she passed through.

Solas went next, without any of the hesitation Ixchel knew every first-timer had with the artifacts. Ixchel followed through the spray of immaterial magic and light and couldn’t help the smile on her face.

For as troubled a relationship she might have with mirrors, she didn’t think she would ever _not_ be in awe of this magic.

It was cool around her, encasing her briefly before bursting. But unlike any other time she had passed through an eluvian—Ixchel _heard_ its magic in her soul just the same as she had heard lyrium, just the same as she could feel Solas from half a mile away. And when she stepped out into the Crossroads, this time, she did not see the fog of Morrigan’s pocket world or the shattered remains of the network Solas had stolen back from the Qunari. Rather, the path she stepped out onto was something like a mix of the two. The ground was lined with glowing runes, but beyond them the world was fogged and gray, murky and uncertain.

Briala eyed her without suspicion—mere curiosity.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” she asked. “I thought that with such magic, the world of our ancestors would have been beautiful for all. Why not have floors that scrubbed themselves?” Her lips curled back in a sad, bitter smile. “But we were an empire of our own. Elves enslaving elves. My mentor taught me to always ask: who will scrub the floors?”

“He sounds wise,” Solas said quietly.

“He never taught me why we _cannot_ have self-scrubbing floors,” Briala replied in a tart voice. “Can you, Dreamer?”

Ixchel looked up at Solas and felt her breath stolen from her. She had never seen him in this place—even his refuge, was a decidedly material place, and the Fade was separate even from here. But here, in this pocket world created by elves for elves, he was ever more the Evanuris she knew he was.

His pale skin was ruddy with life, and the light in this place served to illuminate the elegant lines and planes of him like he were the most carefully installed sculpture. He seemed younger here, as he often did in his dreams of Arlathan. And he was beautiful.

His eyes did not swirl with unknowable power or the light of lyrium, but there were more colors in them—more shades of gray and blue than should possibly exist. She wanted to hold his face in her hands and count them.

“We have thought often about such things, I think,” Solas said and inclined his head to the side, in Ixchel’s direction, slipping his eyes to hers. “Mortal or immortal, there has never been a time where people did not fear the unknown, the uncontrollable. From servants to Circles, societies build themselves in chains—imagined or impressed.”

Briala considered him and nodded. _“You_ sound wise. Like Felassan,” she said. Her eyes strayed to Ixchel, and something in her face softened. “He told me so many stories. One of the last times we spoke, he told me it was time to write my own. Do you know what I said?”

Ixchel shook her head.

“‘I’m not a god,’” Briala said knowingly. “And he said that the stories would decide that.” She gestured. “Come, Inquisitor. Let’s write your story.”

Briala turned and set off without a backward glance. Ixchel glanced again at Solas, who raised a single eyebrow at her. She raised one back at him, and he smiled, and Ixchel pursued Briala with some sense of relief. Her feet did not ache here; her throat did not scratch. She felt _whole,_ and she felt free.

Briala led them through another eluvian and into a large chamber lined with hundreds of eluvians. It was a bowl-shaped room, and the slopes were decorated with runes similar to the supplicant’s paths in the Temple of Mythal. At the center of the labyrinth was a pedestal.

In another life, Briala and Michel had told her separately of their journey to this place, of the varterral and how Briala had walked the path and stolen the keystone to the eluvians. But neither had mentioned how utterly beautiful it was.

Giant braziers burned even now with veilfire, and the walls were supported by monumental statues of elves—sentinels and mages among them, but none of Andruil’s archers. She wondered at that as she turned in a slow circuit and took in the carvings, the symbolism that she recognized and the things that she didn’t. Some of the eluvians were massive, and some more more mundane, but all of them were alive.

The air hummed with the magic that called to something in her blood, her bones.

Ixchel took a deep breath of th ecool, clean air. “Briala,” she said, “what did Felassan say this place was for?”

The Marquise couldn’t help her smile. “We had found this place by traveling through many burial chambers, and the chambers of those in _uthenera,”_ she said. “He said that this was the main funeral hall, where there would be gatherings to honor the dead before burial, but also a place of supplication to the elders in their eternal dreams. He said that supplicants would walk the labyrinth and, if worthy, find the answers they sought in their dreams that night.”

Ixchel felt herself go a little limp. She looked down at the labyrinth and remembered the night after she had fled the Temple of Mythal with Morrigan.

She didn’t want to remember that night.

She whetted her lips and didn’t look at Solas. “I thank you again, Briala. If only for _showing_ us this place.”

“The tear in the sky, the Blight…it threatens us all.” Briala shrugged. “Let me show you the three eluvians you will use. Remember where they are in reference to the pedestal.”

Ixchel did so—and she was certain that Solas would not forget, irregardless.

“They do not lead to longer paths or chambers,” Briala said. “They simply lead out of eluvians that I have, conveniently, placed in Halamshiral for the time being. I will have their partners gathered and sent to you this evening.”

“ _Nuvas ema ir’enastela,”_ Ixchel said.

 _“Fen’Harel enaste,_ ” Solas said with a cheeky grin that Briala almost returned.

When they headed back in the direction they had come, Ixchel gave the chamber one last, long look.

She had never dared return to the Temple of Mythal after that fateful day. She had never again seen such beautiful paths of contemplation. She had never heard their sweet music.

Ixchel could only imagine how it might sound _now._

“Marquise,” she murmured. “May I walk the labyrinth?”

“She could not change the pass phrase without being a mage, or acquiring a keystone,” Solas told Briala, who had hesitated. “I believe our Inquisitor simply has a keen interest in puzzles and our history.”

“Fair enough,” Briala replied. She went to sit upon a marble bench placed at the top of a slope, and she looked back at Solas. “Will you walk with her?”

“I do not seek any answers from the ancestors,” he said. “Go on, _da’len.”_ There was almost a smile in his eyes. “Pay your respects.”

She made a face at him. “Oh, it’s _da’len_ now?” she said sourly. “Fine, _da’fen.”_

Ixchel was pleased to see she had earned an obvious twitch of his ear, and she turned to face the entrance to the labyrinth.

Unlike the grand Temple of Mythal, the paths here were composed of small, step-sized runes. She did not need to leap from one to the next; she did not need to climb across barriers or lift gates. She simply needed to walk, and follow the path laid out before her—which was so easy when each step brought to her ears the song that played in her blood.

It wasn’t merely that her eyes saw the right runes alight ahead of her; it wasn’t merely that she felt the pull of the magic guiding her through the labyrinth if she was slow enough to let it. There was that _moreness_ to everything that made her an elf, here. Everything felt right. Taking a left here, or stepping diagonally, or taking a switchback—it was _right,_ in that moment, from moment to moment.

And in the great, empty hall, the runes echoed their song across the walls and back over her again.

As Ixchel walked the path, she reflected not on the elves in uthenera, but on her past life. For in some ways, wasn’t this like a dream, too? She had said goodbye to her life before, and she had found something new. Albeit unwillingly.

And all at once she realized what song she heard.

She stopped in the center of the labyrinth and pressed the Anchor over her chest.

With the realization came the words:

_Shadow lies between us_   
_As you came, so you shall leave from us._   
_Time and storm shall scatter all things;_   
_Sorrowing you must go,_   
_and yet you are not without hope_   
_for you are not bound to the circles of this world._   
_You are not bound to loss and silence._   
  
_All things must pass away._   
_All life is doomed to fade._

Ixchel looked up at Solas and found him only casually watching her. He was speaking with Briala in that rhythmic way of his, and Briala was watching him attentively. Ixchel wondered if Briala had ever understood this place as well as she had, so suddenly, in this moment. Or if perhaps Ixchel and Solas were the first and only ones in aeons.

Solas realized she had stopped and was staring, and he gave her a questioning smile.

She pressed her hand harder into her chest and closed her eyes as the music begged her to continue.

She obeyed.

-:-:-:-:-

Stepping back out of the eluvian and into the material world was a sour reminder of the mountain of harm she’d accumulated across her body since coming to Halamshiral, and an incentive to leave it all behind.

They thanked Briala once more and bid their goodbyes and wished her luck on fighting for the growing and continued freedoms of the elves of Orlais. Then, they began their slow walk back to their own lodgings.

“You continue to surprise me, _lethallan,”_ Solas said. “You speak so knowingly of eluvians, yet you are as enraptured by them as if you had never seen one. Or the labyrinth. I can’t tell which is true.”

Ixchel gave him a grin but did not, cheekily, ask, _why not both?_ Though she dearly wanted to.

“We’re back to _lethallan,_ and not _da’len?”_ she teased.

Solas chuckled. “Why not both?” he asked, as though he had read her mind. “You are _very_ young to me.”

He suddenly seemed very grim.

“Whatever stories Briala was told about Fen’Harel don’t seem to have been so bad,” Ixchel offered as a change of topic. “Does that please you?”

“No.” He exhaled, long and slow, through his nose. His gaze dropped to the ground before them as they walked. “Felassan was one of my most trusted agents.”

Ixchel kept her gaze fixed on him sidelong. “Was.”

“He is dream-slain.” Solas closed his eyes as he walked. “I had heard stirrings of _mien’harel_ in Orlais. Felassan was my lieutenant here, and he fell in with Briala… When her fate led her to the eluvians, he was meant to get the pass phrase from her. Instead…” He sighed, and in that moment, he looked immeasurably older than he ever had. “ _Vyn esaya gera assan I’mar’av’ingala, Fen’Harel.”_

Ixchel waited.

“…I am angry, _lethallan,”_ he murmured.

“Do you need to punch something?” When he snorted, she spread her arms. “I can take it.”

“I know you can,” he replied. “I have seen you absorb blows that would flatten Qunari.” He shook his head. “No. I will punch myself with the truth.”

Ixchel stared at him. “Does that sound more poetic in Elvhen?”

She was again proud to have coaxed a smirk from him. He ran his fingers around the shell of his ear as it faded.

“‘His friend had to die, because he thought they were people,’” Ixchel murmured. “‘A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf’s jaws.’”

Solas’s eyes shut tight. “Cole.”

“Has always made sense to me, somehow,” Ixchel thought aloud, “but things become clearer, yes.”

Solas set his mouth in a thin, angry line. “He _stopped_ Briala from telling him the key,” he said sharply. “He wanted me to let her have them, for her own rebellion. And I killed him. I did not even argue with him.” His words were slow and even, letting each utterance _hurt,_ as he thought he deserved. “There _was no argument,_ because I had only just left uthenera and witnessed the shades that called themselves elves. And he dared to tell me…that they were stronger than I thought. He dared to tell me she reminded him of me.”

He stopped walking, and Ixchel turned to face him.

Solas met her gaze and the depth of his self-hatred in that moment astounded her. She did not reach for him in comfort, however.

“Leliana would have done no different,” Ixchel said quietly. “There have been many things in life that taught her that compassion, softness, allowances, will be punished. I don’t blame her for that, but I won’t let my friends fall into that smooth-walled pit. Not while I’m here to reach out.”

He breathed again—slow, steady—and the burning in his eyes continued. “Solas, there is very little you could do that would change my world view on redemption,” she said in a harder tone. “ _Dirthara ma, harellen.”_

There was a near-imperceptible flare of his nostrils, and then he ducked his head to break her gaze. “How am I so immeasurably older than you, _da’len,”_ he said through his teeth, “and yet you are the one who looks at me with such familiar eyes?”

“I know pain,” she replied simply. “What was it you once told me? ‘It is calming to see something familiar in another.’”

He snorted outright. “I do not think I see such ugly things in you, Ixchel.”

“Perhaps not.” She shrugged slowly. “But you might see their reflection.”

Solas peered at her keenly again. She did not know when she had decided to be so careless and open, or if it were wise, but it felt like the ground were moving so quickly beneath her and she was flying with it, taking leaps and bounds haphazardly for the thrill of it. It was true—she did not think herself capable of such callousness or cruelty the way Leliana and Solas clearly were. But she felt the pain of watching the ones she loved turn into the things they hated, and the unique pain of becoming the mistake that led to their self-hate.

“You have a very good memory,” he said suddenly.

“I was illiterate and lived alone amid ruins. With no way to keep records and no one to pass stories to, I told them to myself, endlessly,” she told him. As she spoke this piece of her aloud, the hard line of his jaw relaxed a little. The darkness in his eyes began to disperse, and he looked at her with great interest.

“Hmm.” He made a soft sound as he examined her. “I would like to hear them, _lethallan,_ if you would do me such a favor.”

She smiled at him. “A tale for a tale, _lethallin._ And don’t tell me _any_ of the ones about your tail, Fen’Harel. I know most of those already.”

Solas laughed, and he still chuckled a bit as they walked the rest of the way back to their lodgings.


	61. Chapter 75 Excerpts

They had gathered at the main gates of Halamshiral and said their goodbyes to one another, and to the crowd that had gathered. Ixchel rode off on her white hart, followed by Solas, Cassandra, and Cole. They traveled light, accompanied only by one cart, in which one of Briala’s eluvians had been secured and bundled up among their supplies. It wasn’t a terribly long journey southwest to the Exalted Plains, but they stopped several times along the way; Ixchel still found herself easily exhausted after the deficit of sleep and the stress, both mental and physical, of her stay in Halamshiral.

During one such rest stop, Cassandra caught Ixchel staring off at the western horizon.

“So Fenris is going back to Hawke,” Cassandra said.

Ixchel prepared herself as best she could without visibly tensing. Solas was just on the other side of their camp, but he had made no indication that he was paying attention. She had supposed it might only be a matter of time before someone tried to address her liaisons with the Blue Wraith, and it shouldn’t have surprised her that romantic, Kirkwall-curious Cassandra would be the one. “Yes,” Ixchel said and cleared her throat.

“I was surprised that you two had grown close,” Cassandra said. “He is so _…angry._ Though I suppose that is just how Varric described him.”

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. Before she could reply, Cole chimed in: “Anger and pain reflecting back, bright as brands in his skin. At least you knew when he felt something. But you’ve had enough of broken mirrors.”

Ixchel’s cheeks burned. She fixed a weak glare at Cassandra. “Well, Seeker?”

“I don’t consider you a very angry person,” Cassandra admitted. “Do you?”

The Inquisitor looked down at her hands. “It’s hard not to be, isn’t it?”

Cassandra hesitated. “Well, obviously you are right. But…you have rarely been truly angry. It seems always born of disappointment or grief.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “Then I am doing my job well, I think,” she murmured. “But we have left Val Royeaux, and the time for masks and mirrors is over.”

Solas turned, then, from his tasks and met her eyes. He regarded her silently for a moment, then inclined his head. “I am glad, however, that you allowed yourself some happiness.” His voice was earnest and even as he spoke, just the same as he had told her: _‘I am not upset with you.’_ He meant it. “People should seize any chance for a moment’s respite in times such as these.”

Somehow, that only placed more weight on her shoulders. She turned back to the western horizon to continue her reflection. She hadn’t been thinking about Fenris, truthfully. She had been thinking about a fortress, and the Fade.

Maybe she could convince Fenris to take Hawke away from the battle. Just in case. Now more than ever, she knew she could not fall into the Fade again. She could not risk Fenris, or Hawke, for Fenris’s sake—

“Have you found someone to share a moment’s respite?” Cassandra asked Solas. “When you were away?”

Solas gave her a placid, opaque smile. “Of a kind, perhaps.”

-:-:-:-:-

The sound of a rift drew them southeast through crumbling archways, and they closed it without too much trouble. Continuing up the path, they found the only trace of a statue so massive, Ixchel could scarcely imagine it. It was merely the hand—palm open, beckoning—and she wondered whose it had been. No mortal had constructed such a thing, surely. Perhaps it had been Ghilan’nain, beckoning the way, or Dirthamen, inviting secrets.

Below the hand was a pit, and as Cassandra and Ixchel studied it, they found traces of a somewhat recent passage into it: climbing ropes, footprints, a smear of blood.

“Perhaps the Venatori did not merely flee this way,” Solas mused. “Perhaps it was instead their destination.”

“Then we should see if they found their quarry.” Ixchel tested the rope and found it well-secured, and without further ado, she slid down into the darkness.

What she found there was a strange underground labyrinth that reminded her very much of a crypt, but it was barren of remains or memorials. Instead, as she trekked cautiously onward and inward, she found lower and lower ceilings, vaulted archways—and at last, a large chamber brimming with magic. She looked around with wide eyes in the murk and recognized the globular trees of Mythal that she had once seen in the Vir Dirthara, brimming with ancient magic that called to the destabilizing Anchor. These, however, were silent—and surrounded by halos of golden mosaics. In their center stood an archer, surrounded by four pedestals each topped with a howling wolf.

Ixchel turned a searching gaze to Solas. He leaned on his staff.

“What comes to mind, lethallan?” he asked.

So he wasn’t going to help, then.

She turned back to face the scene. “These trees…are connected to Mythal, one of the gods of the elves,” Ixchel said, partly for Cassandra and Cole’s benefit. “The archer is one of Andruil’s—who herself was a daughter of Mythal. Outside, there have been nothing but wolves and stags, the latter belonging to Ghilan’nain. This place belonged to one of the two, then.”

“Or both,” Solas said, a gentle allowance that she tucked away in her reserve of Elvhen truths.

“Or both,” she agreed. “They hold no power at the moment, but I feel the magic in the air…. Perhaps our Venatori friends have not unlocked the secrets here as of yet.” She tilted her head, listening. “I do not hear them, though, so either they have escaped here…or they did not escape.”

Solas nodded. “We should search, cautiously,” he advised.

Cassandra drew her sword.

They indeed found that the Venatori had died: trapped in barred-off sections of the room. Ixchel quickly realized: “They couldn’t figure out the puzzle.”

“Ugh. This is your thing,” Cassandra sighed. “Just tell me where to stand or what to hit.”

“Oh! These are like what Envy tried to twist you with,” Cole added, surprised.

“This isn’t veilfire,” Ixchel corrected.

“But it’s still a trial. The things that make you feel big, not small, da’len.”

Ixchel felt her ears begin to burn, and she realized Solas watched her keenly. She ignored Cole’s remarks.

“Lead the way, Inquisitor,” Solas said.

She made a face at him but began circling the large chamber in search of whatever mechanisms lay at the heart of the puzzle.

Ixchel identified several levers and winches that seemed to control the gates around the room, as well as the way the archer statue faced, and which of the four stone pedestals were raised or lowered. After testing things out, she sat in the center of the rubble and began drawing in the dust. “This one up, this pulled. That one up…this clears…”

Her so-styled hedge mage drew closer to watch her writing. “More from your upbringing, I wonder?”

She shrugged. “You try to sleep in enough trapped ruins, you start picking up on the technology.” She looked up at Cassandra, Cole, and Solas. “I’ll take this lever. Cassandra, take that one. Solas, over there please. Cole—yes, you got it.”

It took two tries to get the puzzle solved, as Ixchel hadn’t, at first, timed how long it took for each pedestal to lower or rise. Her lack of observation resulted in the archer shooting its magic straight at a wolf’s head more than once, and the magic took several minutes to recharge inbetween shots—which meant starting over. But it wasn’t long before each of Mythal’s trees had been activated. The magic crackled and roared in the air above them, and then the sound grew, for two more trees came alive on the other side of a far wall.

Ixchel took her time and looked around at the chamber she was currently in, however. The ambient magic she had sensed all around her in the air had seemingly been sucked up into the trees, and now the crypt was free and clean, almost in the same way as the atmosphere of the Crossroads: Elvhen magic, for elves. But Cassandra seemed only perturbed and uncertain, not uncomfortable.

Ixchel led her group onward.

“Why are there so many bodies?” Cassandra breathed. “It’s almost as though they were…embracing.”

Ixchel hardly had an answer for her. She looked around the crypt they had entered and wondered at its simplicity, yet there was no mistaking that it was a place of honor. Twin wolves guarded the tomb, which held only one sarcophagus. Unlike many ancient tombs of the Elvhen, it had a small headstone to mark it. Ixchel peered closer, but then Solas put his hand on her shoulder.

“I sense something lurking,” he murmured.

Ixchel felt it, too. She glanced down the murky hallway on their left. “Be ready,” she said, then moved closer to the grave marker again.

It seemed to represent the twisting horns of the halla, as opposed to the wide, wing-like rack of a hart.

She was about to open her mouth to guess at what lay within the crypt when there was a hiss behind her. She ducked out of the way to avoid the necromantic energies of the Arcane Horror who had floated in from the adjacent chamber.

The bones beneath her feet began to shift and rise to the Horror’s command. Their fingerbones fused together and became claws, and their chattering teeth were sharp, pointed: hungry.

Solas placed himself between Ixchel and the Horror, and it immediately turned its attention to Cassandra instead. Ixchel narrowed her eyes at Solas’s back—what did he do?

“The Veil is exceptionally thin here,” he said over his shoulder. “If I call forth my magic, it will tear.”

“I can close it,” she assured him, “or I can take a few hits. Don’t get all protective—”

Solas gave a barking laugh, then stepped aside. “Very well. Happy hunting, lethallan.”

She charged forward and caught the Horror unawares with her axe. Solas hung back in a corner of the room, bashing in the skulls of any undead that came in reach but otherwise staying out of the way. Cole, with his quick vanishing acts, made sure the Horror never got far when it tried to get away from Ixchel and Cassandra’s blades. And, considering their track record with Arcane Horrors, they ended the battle relatively unscathed. Perhaps it was the magic in the air—or perhaps the Horror had simply been weakened with age—but Ixchel felt that she hit harder, moved faster. She did not feel so affected by the Horror’s magic or its claws.

In the aftermath, Ixchel examined its disintegrating clothing and did not recognize it as originating from the Empire of the Dales. Arlathan, then.

She felt ready to make her guess. Ixchel turned to Solas and twirled her axe once before pointing it at the crypt. “Ghilan’nain. After the hunter, before the halla.”

He inclined his head.

“Do I want to know?” Cassandra asked.

“Ghilan’nain began as a follower of Andruil,” Ixchel said, her eyes still on Solas. “She cursed a hunter who broke Andruil’s laws. In retribution, he beat, blinded, and bound her. Andruil heard Ghilan’nain’s prayers and turned her into the first halla. But,” she continued, “as we know, Cassandra…it does not take much to style oneself as a god. The Evanuris were elves. And this might be what happened to Ghilan’nain’s first form.”

Cassandra took a slow step forward. “Do you think whatever the Venatori were looking for might be inside?” she asked, grim.

“I would not open it,” Solas said quietly. “I sense no magic within, but a spirit of vengeance would likely be attracted to such remains—if it indeed is what you say, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel spent only a moment longer taking in the mysteries of the crypt. There was so much she still did not know about the ancient elves. Was it that Ghilan’nain had died, but been brought back somehow—like Mythal? Or was it that she had been removed from her broken body and been given a new one?

“All of this magic, for such a simple tomb?” Cassandra wondered aloud.

“Such applications of intellect are often found in halls of worship and gathering,” Solas said. “This trial required forward thinking and quick reflexes—valuable qualities in a huntress.” He gestured around them with his staff. “Imagine, Seeker, a supplicant proving themselves in such a way, then being brought into this holy space to receive a reward from Andruil, as Ghilan’nain herself did.”

They walked into the next chamber and froze in their tracks.

The walls were lined with weapon racks. As soon as they crossed the threshold, it became clear that there had been soe sort of magic-muting barrier on the room, because the air thrummed with it. Swords, pikes, bows, mauls—they filled the room.

Ixchel recognized some of the particulars of their make from her encounters with Sentinels. Others, however, were beyond any craftmanship she had ever seen.

“Hah,” Solas said in quiet amusement. He glanced at Ixchel sidelong. “Well, Worthy One. Select your prize.”

She stepped hesitantly into the chamber. “Is there something that might happen if I were to touch more than one?” she asked.

“I do not believe so.”

She picked up what seemed to be an empty hilt, and she immediately felt a suction upon the Anchor. Green Fade magicks flew down the hilt and formed a blazing blade not unlike Vivienne’s. She looked up at Solas in surprise. “For an ena’sal’in’amelan?” she questioned.

There was a sparkle of curiosity in his eye as he nodded. She replaced the weapon on the wall and the blade disappeared into darkness again.

The next weapon she picked up was the finest bow she had ever seen. It seemed to have been carved from dragon bone—she thought, at least, for its golden frame. But when she touched it, she found it held none of the heat that dragon bones contained, and it was far heavier than they ever were. She ran a finger along its string and gasped as a bolt of lightning sprang to life between her hands. The shock of it was so startling that she nearly dropped it, and the memory that passed on to her next was nearly as unexpected. It was like she was in the Vir Dirthara again: sensations and half-formed images and words, beautiful words, whispered in Elvhen but understood intimately in her heart:

She took the gathering storm, trapped its fury in golden limbs, and strung it with the screams of the south wind.

“The gathering storm,” she said in awe and replaced it in its hallowed spot on the wall.

She took up what seemed to be the grip of a staff—this time, she was prepared for the magic, and the staff itself formed out of green flames. It was weighted in her hand like a halberd, though the whole thing burned.

This one whispered: The way is full of trials and peril. Carry the warm memories of hearth and home to keep hope alive.”

“They speak to me,” she murmured. “Were these the voices of…?”

“I hear them too,” Cole said. “They still remember when they were higher, before it woke up and everything fell…so many old songs, singing to old blood.”

“Does any of this make sense?” Cassandra muttered.

Ixchel saw her gaze slip in the direction of a more mundane-looking axe, and Ixchel picked it up. She examined the runework and recognized its magic if only because of her first-hand experience of such things. “A master dragon-slaying axe,” she said with a smile. “My dear friend, I believe this was meant for you.”

Cassandra colored. “I do not know if I’m comfortable taking—oh, alright.” Ixchel had pressed the axe into her hands, ignoring her protests. “Are you not taking anything for yourself?”

Ixchel hesitated. “These are all wonderful,” she said, “and I do not know if I feel comfortable leaving them here… But…”

“You’re afraid, like the vallaslin, they mark you as one of theirs,” Cole offered.

Ixchel sighed. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Solas hummed contemplatively, then crossed the room and selected something off the wall. “Rogasha’ghilan,” he called. He couldn’t hide his amusement as she approached. “Crowned with Felgaral Dir’vhen’an, you have proved your wit and reflex…”

It was another empty hilt—long, for a two-handed weapon. He had tucked his own staff under his arm so that he could offer her the new weapon in his upturned palms, a gift bestowed. In the pommel was what seemed to be a shard of an eluvian, or at least something once-mirrored and now tarnished and brassy like the ancient portals. The hilt itself was made of the same strange, dark metal she had seen so much of at Suledin Keep, and it had been engraved in a scale-like pattern, with an etching along one side. She could not read it with her eyes, but as she laid her hand upon it, she understood:

The spark of inspiration is with you. Use it to restore what was lost.

The blade flared to life, though not with the magic of the Anchor. Rather, it was composed of light itself, in all its colors. It radiated magic like flame or fog, she couldn’t quite describe it—but it was entrancing. In its rippling light she could almost make out the shape of the greatsword within it: shaped like a long feather, inscribed and etched with veins.

The chromatic display lit Solas’s face in much the same way as she had seen in the Crossroads, but something else burned in his eyes. “Irlahna veredhe in lea’vune,” he said, “lasa nan’ise nuis, tuauan leal.”


	62. Chapter 76 Excerpt

She wasn’t sure who would find her in the Fade, Solas or Cole, for neither had offered and neither came to sleep with her. But she was confident one of them would, and if not, she felt a little more confident in her ability to search the Fade for them than she used to.

But she was surprised to find that in her dream she was back in Suledin Keep, in the ruined courtyard that was full of shattered pieces of eluvians. Her surprise melted away instantly and reformed into certainty: she felt compelled to find the shard she had once picked up. That was why she was here—she need not question it further than that.

Ixchel began digging through the snow in search of it.

Every piece she found was dead and dark and dull; she couldn’t see a reflection within them, nor any sense of magic. She was still searching when her company joined her. She did not look up, still compelled by the sense that she needed that shard for it to work.

She paused. For what to work?

There was a moment, then, of clarity—something pulled away from around her head as certainly as if a shroud had been parted before her. Ixchel straightened up and looked down at her hands. They were red and raw from digging through the snow and scratching on rock and glass.

“What do you search for, lethallan?”

She raised herself to her feet, but then the air in the dream was warm and tingling, thick with the Fade, pressing close again. “Answers,” she said. The word seemed drawn from her through thick syrup, and she frowned.

Solas’s steps were silent in the snow, but she felt the Fade move around him. “May I assist you?”

“It’s the shard,” she said. “The shard I held. I need to find it.”

His robes whispered against the snow, and then he reached for her elbow and turned her to face him. He was dressed as he had been the last time she saw him in the Fade, across Judicael’s Crossing: a thick black cloak with the hood drawn up over his head. Now, she could see that a wolf pelt was buckled across his shoulders. Beneath the cloak, she could see the wolf jawbone pendant resting atop a muted yellow tunic.

“Look at me?”

She raised her face to his. As their eyes met, she saw his begin to glow with a familiar light.

“Ah.” A small, close-lipped smile tugged at his mouth. “You have made a friend.” He brushed a hand across her face as though removing a cobweb, and it felt similarly. When he showed her what he had found, she wondered at it. It was a wispy, cloying thing—somehow massless but full. It reminded her of the comb jellies that sometimes washed up on the beach in Markham at the end of summer.

“What is it?”

“A wisp,” he said. “It feels something like a Purpose or Determination. I am not surprised to find it drawn to you.” He held his hand up, and it melted away into the Fade, unseen. “Where you rest, in the Exalted Plains, there are many such Spirits pressing against the Veil.”

Ixchel nodded. It made sense. “I wonder what it wanted me to find,” she mused.

“Only something you wanted to find,” Solas replied. “Namely, the shard, for answers.”

She shrugged and pulled away. “I can’t imagine why.”

“You left it on the sill, there,” he reminded her. “Very carefully, if I recall.”

Ixchel flushed at the note of gentle fondness in his voice, but she went to the empty window and indeed found the shard there. It did not swirl with the magic of an eluvian, but it reflected the way a mirror would, unlike its dark companions in the snow. When she took it in her hands, it shone with reflected moonlight.

She examined her reflection but saw nothing out of place—the scars, the vallaslin, the age, the eyes. Then, she did as she had done that last night she had been here, and she tilted it back to look at Solas.

Six red eyes looked down at Ixchel from the darkness beneath Solas’s hood. She clutched the shard more tightly but did not start. Some part of her had expected the sight. Maybe she had always seen that same six-eyed shadow when she looked at him.

But his breath caught in his throat at what he saw in the shattered mirror. When he spoke next, his voice was carefully even, yet even so, she recognized the disguise in it. She couldn’t tell what it hid, but she could make any number of guesses.

“This isn’t what I see when I look at you,” she said in an attempt to reassure him. Not anymore, at least.

“What, the Dread Wolf?” he asked darkly. “No, you see Regret, don’t you?”

Ixchel turned with a confused frown, and he leaped in to the opening with an accusatory undercurrent in his voice: “On the beach at Crestwood, Regret shaped itself into a six-eyed wolf.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “Well… Varric said, ‘eyes like Pride,’” she admitted. “You can be proud of something in the moment, and regret it later.”

“If that is the answer, then the question is: is that what you think I am,” he asked, “or is it what I am?”

She gave him an unimpressed look. He did not rise to her challenge, but held her gaze in a challenge of his own. Ixchel set the shard back in its place on the sill in lieu of answering, because she didn’t quite know what it meant, either—especially if a wisp like Purpose was urging her to see this as an answer.

He was right to raise the questions he had, of course, and she considered whether or not they were the right questions for the answer she had seen. She did not know. There was always the possibility that this vision had nothing to do with his presence, or said anything about him, but rather her. After all, she wasn’t sure herself whether the Regret demon had taken the lupine form because of her or his presence. Her purpose, for so long, had been to dispel the threat of his Pride. But he was also her greatest Regret, in many ways, and that six-eyed shadow had haunted her for so long—over her shoulder in her nightmares, in her waking worries. It was also the shape of her own Despair.

She had no idea what the right question was, for this answer. But she could at least address what she had heard in his voice:

“You are my friend, Solas,” she said pointedly, “and I care about how you feel. Regret or Pride or otherwise.”

That seemed to disarm him, and she realized that the thing he had been disguising was suspicion. Wariness. It hurt more than she had expected it to.

She gestured around them at the Keep. “Imshael gave us a great deal to think about, last time we were here. I understand now why it felt like you were…testing me. But there was more than that. There is something about you and Andruil and Ghilan’nain that puts you on edge and casts the world in a shadow.” She looked back up at him and repeated something he had said to her, such a very long time ago now: “I would know what hurt you.”

Solas touched the pendant on his chest, almost unconsciously, as he gazed upon her. It was almost as though he didn’t believe her, that she would want to know such a thing. Had he always doubted how much she cared for him? Or did he think that something had changed since his confession?

“Why is it so surprising?” she asked quietly.

He tightened his grip on the bone around his neck. His eyes roamed her face before dropping to the snow. “It is foolish, but perhaps I am not accustomed to being…worried about. But you are right. For so long you have met me where I stood, but not followed, not pushed. Now…you can, and you should.”

His words drew a smile to her face. She reached for him now and cupped his elbows in her hands as she looked up at his downturned face. “I don’t mean to push very hard, lethallin,” she allowed. “It would be enough just to have you understand how I care for you.”

He nodded slowly beneath his hood. His eyes—just the two of them, pale silver in the depths of his hood—were creased at the corners with something like grief. “Ma serannas, Ixchel.”

Ixchel tried to think of something to change the topic, and she looked around her to shape the Fade into somewhere kinder, warmer. But Solas surprised her by brushing aside her attempt and altering the Fade himself.

Suledin Keep was restored, and it was full of trees. There were few roofs that Ixchel could see; instead, the keep’s great halls were covered in canopies of interlocked branches and vines. Many of the windows had not held glass at all, it seemed, but rather allowed spirits and birds to fly freely through them. There was no snow on the ground; Spirits fluttered all around, some as small and insubstantial as the wisp that had clung to her and others as large and imposing as they came. She didn’t recognize many of them, but they were all beautiful to her.

Where they now stood was one of the exterior walkways lined with archers and stags. Framed between them, in the distance, was the mountain-sized statue of Fen’Harel.

Elves milled about the complex as well, dressed in fine armor in greens and browns and armed with bows. Each and every one wore the vallaslin of Andruil. From the way they were dressed and carried themselves, Ixchel gathered that the color of the blood writing in some way indicated rank. She could not make out their features more specifically, blurred with time and memory.

Solas watched her take in the wonders of the place. She looked up at the sky and found it full of auroras like she had never seen. Even in the daylight she could see the specks of stars hung up far in the cosmos. The air itself was populated by creatures and Spirits, though not so many as might be considered crowded.

In terrifying dissonance with the beauty and grace of their surroundings, the air was full of the tortured cries of beasts.

She looked back down at Solas with alarm. He clasped his hands behind his back as he gazed out upon the path ahead of them. His brow was troubled.

He had changed, too; younger here, perhaps even thinner. His hair was a long, dark waterfall down his shoulder, thoughit was cropped short on the sides. A circlet of twining branches curled up around his ears. He was dressed in the golden armor of a Sentinel, but he was so very different from the Solas she had once known—the last Solas she had seen in such armor—that it did not hurt so much to see.

“I suspect you will have questions.”

Ixchel laughed hesitantly. “Well, I always have questions.”

He raised an eyebrow and sent an oblique glance in her direction. “I hope you will ask them freely, now.”

She bit her lip. “If you wish.”

He turned back to the path, but he did not move the dream along. The scene continued as it had: the long path, bodies moving, the cries of the beasts, the twinkling auroras, and a slight breeze.

“I do not know where to begin. So here is just a story,” he said. “Andruil grew bored with hunting the creatures of the air and land and sea. Even Ghilan’nain, Mother of Monsters, could not keep up with the Huntress’s need for ever more challenging prey. To prevent her from turning her bow upon the People, Mythal suggested a competition between her own greatest hunter and Andruil herself. Andruil agreed and suggested the halla as their prey, for they were fleetest of foot and sure to shy.”

“But Mythal’s hunter bested Andruil,” Ixchel supplied with a sly grin.

Solas dipped his head, likewise smirking. “After he struck the killing blow, Andruil claimed he had gone against her will by slaying the halla without her blessing. She captured Mythal’s servant and bound him to her bed for a year and a day to pay her back.”

Ixchel’s smile faded. Though Solas spoke so lyrically and impersonally now, it hadn’t been long ago that she had made a passing reference to the Chevaliers penchant for such assaults and he had replied with a promise of murder.

A year and a day.

“Anaris, then at war with the Evanuris, heard of Andruil’s preoccupation and lay siege to her home.”

The agonized cries of fearful animals were joined by the distant sounds of warfare, though the scene remained peaceful on its surface. Ixchel wondered at that, at why he was not showing her the events of the story, or Andruil or Anaris. She looked back at him and found he had lost his smile.

“Andruil was content to let the walls crumble around her, until Mythal’s hunter pondered whether she were hiding from the superior warrior, Anaris. Andruil leaped for her sword, but the hunter again wondered if Andruil would simply go out and bloody her blade on a boar and claim she had bested her rival. In her fury, Andruil dragged her bound prisoner out to watch a duel between herself and Anaris.

“Blinded with rage and pride, Andruil paid no heed when her prisoner told Anaris of a flaw in her armor.” Solas shook his head slowly. “When she fell, Mythal’s hunter claimed that Anaris owed him a life debt. Anaris agreed, but the hunter then claimed the life he owed was Andruil’s. Anaris had given his word and could do nothing to stop the hunter as hfe stole Andruil away and brought her, humbled, to the feet of her mother.”

The air was suddenly filled with the familiar sound of a dragon’s wings. A dragon—larger than any Ixchel had ever seen—flew low over the Keep, then wheeled around and dove below the cliff, likely to head to the massive Undercroft-like chamber Cole had shown her. As the dragon flew, Ixchel caught a glimpse of its keen, golden eyes.

Mythal.

Solas was watching the dragon’s path when Ixchel rounded on him. “Did Mythal give you the justice you deserved?”

He did not lower his eyes to meet her gaze now. “What do you mean?”

“She held you captive. She—she stole your agency.” But she had already seen the answer behind his opacity, and Ixchel’s blood ran cold. She hugged herself to quell her shivers. “Nothing?”

“Mythal sent her servant to humble Andruil, and I did,” he replied. “I knew not that I should ask for anything in return. And it seemed better than letting her hunt the People.”

Ixchel worked her throat around a sudden knot. “You are not an acceptable sacrifice,” she said.

That made Solas turn. It was the youngest she had ever seen him, she was certain. He seemed taken aback by the look on her face, but his surprise passed quickly to be replaced with an expression that was both abashed and bitter. He raised a hand to touch the side of her neck tenderly while that sad, twisted smile ghosting across his lips.

His thumb stroked the corner of her jaw, thoughtfully as he took in her fiercely determined visage.

“’Ma serannas, Champion,” he said.

Ixchel clasped his hand against her neck and squeezed it tightly as she drank in the sight of him, this young, fierce warrior. “You were a hunter?”

“I was what I was asked to be,” he replied.

Ixchel suddenly realized that, perhaps, she was the first person who had heard him speak of himself like this—and, apparently, the first to respond in such a way—in more centuries than she could reckon with. For however long he had been in uthenera, he had likely lived just as long in Elvhenan. How long of that had been as a slave?

The strength of her sudden sorrow brought a pall over the bright sky and mist to her eyes. She stared up at him beneath her brow heavy with concern. “You wouldn’t show me them?”

He shook his head. “They are locked away, but even the memory of them holds a vengeful power,” he said ruefully. “Especially in the Fade.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. She did have so many questions, but some she could not explain how she knew to ask them.

“I suppose it makes sense now, why Andruil’s archer was always chasing the wolves on the pillars,” she said at last.

He chuckled at that. “Yes. She wasn’t very fond of me.”

“Felgaral Dir’vhen’an?” she asked. “Were you looking for it, that night?”

Solas shook his head. “No… I was wandering, reflecting on Imshael’s words… When I saw you, crowned with it, I—” He caught himself from saying something. His eyes, and his hand, slipped away. “There were many things on my mind in that moment. Partly, that I did not know what it meant for you to appear so suddenly with it in your hair, when I had spent so long wondering if you were on the same path as those I had locked away. Partly, that I did not want Andruil to lay claim to you even in this way. Partly…” He paused, then plowed ahead. “…that I wanted to see you wear it as the worthy Champion I hoped you’d be.”

Ixchel was quiet as she followed him down the path. The spirits who had played the part of the crowd of ancient elves fled into the Fade, leaving them alone in the beautiful keep. Ixchel did not know what to follow his remark with; once again, she felt she was at the impasse of how important she knew she was to him, and his seeming indecision about how to proceed from there. She likewise did not know of a question she could ask in that moment that wouldn’t hurt. She wanted to ask about Mythal. She wanted to ask about the vallaslin, and geases. His melancholy had fallen like a heavy mantle across his shoulders

She stopped walking and pushed against his hold on the dream around them. He relented easily and turned to watch with curiosity as she let her plan unfold:

She wore the pyrophite, dragon bone, and Dalish banner weave once more, edged with bloody red and sunset oranges; he was again in the shirt, gorget, and tabard he had worn to the Winter Palace. His hair was still long, braided down one shoulder, and his pendant around his neck. They stood at the center of the empty ballroom.

“I might have been the first elf to dance in this court in over eight-hundred years,” she said, “but I won’t be the last.” She extended her hand. “Vyn alas’niremah i'em, Fen’Harel?”

“Ma ghilana’falon,” he replied, drawing closer.

They danced the night away, alone in Halamshiral. His smile did not return until the walls of the dream fell down around them.


	63. Chapter 77 Excerpts

It took the rest of the day to clear the citadel of undead. They found not a single living soul within the walls, even in the vaults and crypts where Celene’s forces had gone to hide. They had been starved out, and Ixchel was filled with regret at the knowledge that Cassandra had been right—in her hurries and amid the mountain of her other concerns, all of these people had died because she did not come to save them. She didn’t know what she could have done, and the guilt weighed on her.

In the end, they had to resort to makeshift body pits and burning the remains that were scattered through the fortress—and there were many. The smell eventually overwhelmed her and she retreated to a section of the citadel that was isolated by a ruined wall; she had to climb up through some empty windows to reach it, and that meant most of the putrid smoke did not reach it, either.

She allowed herself to be ill in peace, and then she sat back against a pillar and looked out at the river. It was like a thread of fire through the land as it reflected the dying light of day. The statues of Andraste and the figures holding bowls of fire seemed as though they had simply scooped up the liquid flames at their feet.

Ixchel heard the quiet footsteps of her ancient Elvhen mage, but she did not turn.

“I know you said the magic was from the Dales,” she said, “but the architecture reminds me of Suledin, and the Watcher reminds me of Dirthamen. We found Andruil’s secret testing grounds, and I can’t help but think—what else did Dirthamen hide for the Evanuris? What secrets did Dirthamen keep?"

“Now, isn’t that an astute question?” Solas said. He lowered himself to the ground beside her, close enough that their arms brushed. She resisted the urge to lay her head on his shoulder, and instead she turned her head to gaze upon him. He had his eyes closed against the sunset, and the golden light seemed to wash away all of the signs of his age and worry. “Their borders of their kingdoms were not drawn in a way you might see on a human map,” he said. “The world was not drawn in a way you might see on a map.”

She thought of the hidden valley, Fen’Harel’s welcome, and eluvian after eluvian after eluvian.

She thought of Solas, who had always been an artist.

“I wish you’d show me more,” she murmured. “But maybe it hurts.”

Solas opened his eyes and squinted into the sunset. “Cole has tried. ‘Your hurt is old inside, vast across the Veil.’” He chuckled bitterly and closed his eyes again as he tilted his head back to rest against the warm stone behind them. “Lethallan, there are thousands of years of things that have been lost. Where could I possibly begin?”

Her brow creased in concern. He knew she could not hope to tell him what he should tell her to make himself feel better, and she felt badly for asking questions—it made her feel like a schoolchild, and only served to highlight the disparity of age and experience between them. She wanted him to tell her the things he loved about his home, his people. And she understood what he was saying now, but that was no reason to be withholding.

The withholding made her nervous, as though it were the first step to running away.

Ixchel thought of the Solas she had once known, and how rarely he allowed her even the shallowest glimpse of his true grief, his true passion, his true self. And she thought of how he’d run from her when she’d shown him what she considered the trust and love due to the dearest of friends. She thought of how he had thrown Bull’s betrayal in her face, warned her to be more careful with her Inquisition.

She though of Felassan: one of Solas’s ‘most trusted agents’ and, perhaps, a friend. He had certainly known Solas well enough to push his buttons.

And Solas had killed him without hesitation.

When had he been betrayed so thoroughly that his hand could not be swayed, even for a moment, not even for a friend? Who was the last person to have touched his heart, or to have seen it? To have asked? When had Solas forgotten Compassion?

She thought of him now. He had not fully unburdened himself, but he was lighter. He had admitted things to her she hadn’t even thought he was capable of feeling: fear, doubt, worry. The man beside her was nearly irreconcilable with the man she had known—though still, she did not fully believe him, or herself.

I will not betray your trust, she had promised him.

“Solas?” she said softly, to call his eyes upon her. She gazed at him for a moment longer. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Solas’s pale eyes were open to her; she saw surprise in them, more than anything. But the the surprise cleared, and a troubled darkness took its place. She did not need to elaborate on whether it was the loss of Mythal, the loss of his People, the loss of grand magicks, or the loss of friends to betrayal and death—at his hand or otherwise. There was such loss in him, and somehow she knew it, and he knew it, somehow, too.

“Thank you,” he said, just as quietly.

And that was all they said for a very long time.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel stepped through the eluvian and into what she had come to think of as the hall of uthenera.

It was empty at the moment.

“Solas,” she said when he came through behind her. “Did you ever walk the labyrinth yourself?”

He seemed taken aback by her question. They strolled around the perimeter of the hall in the direction of the mirror that would lead to Vivienne. “No,” he said at last. “Even paths unmarked by Dreamers were never unknown to me. I never wanted for company or guides.”

She studied him carefully as something familiar nagged at the back of her mind. It was a memory she had found in the Vir Dirthara—those stayed with her almost more clearly than her own memories, perhaps by magic and design. It had described how Dreamers could find the deepest parts of the Fade if they reached an utter epiphany, likely in uthenera themselves. Hundreds of years for searching, learning, practice.

Those who never manifested outside the Fade will find it easier to find its stillest roots, but it is rare the compulsion overtakes our brethren of the air.

She and Dorian had looked at each other with such immediate understanding, such awe. She had already known Solas’s true identity, and as they learned more and more through their pursuit of the Qunari, she had pieced together a better understanding of Elvhenan: a realm almost inconceivable to Dorian, where Fade and Material interacted in seamless harmony the way the sky met the ocean on the horizon. Spirits and Elves were nearly indistinguishable, yet separate. And those like Cole were not so rare. It had particularly excited him to find out that he and Solas weren’t very different after all.

That was when she had truly known Solas. And that was the first time she had truly despaired. Because like Cole, he had seemingly made his choices, and she feared there would be no return.

“Then, Dreamer…did you hear the music when I walked the paths?” she asked.

Solas nodded.

“With the weapons in Andruil’s armory, and with the labyrinth… I hear voices, too,” she said. “Very rarely, I have encountered glyphs that have imparted knowledge and flashes of memory in a similar way… I mean to ask you, what was the song from?”

That only seemed to perplex him. “I heard no words, Ixchel,” he said. His suddenly curious gaze zeroed in on the labyrinth. “The melody…is a familiar one, though I cannot recall where I had heard it before.”

“Huh.” She likewise stared at the labyrinth below them. The central pedestal seemed so much like the altar upon which a body might be displayed—a realization that made her skin crawl.

Ixchel activated the eluvian and stepped through.


	64. Chapter 78 Excerpt

Though Cassandra and Cole were both known to Taven and a sizable group of Hawen’s clan, Ixchel had decided it would be better to approach the notoriously cautious Keeper with only Solas for company. She wasn’t exactly sure how that would go, in and of itself, but she trusted Solas to be on his best behavior for her.

When had that happened?

They set out slowly on their mounts fairly early, and they reached the river by midday. Solas was dressed in the wyvern leather cuirass and paragon’s luster gorget that he had somehow obtained before they last left Skyhold, as well as the vest and overcoat she had crafted for him. He had scavenged some light shoulder armor from somewhere in the citadel, she imagined, because only that would explain how he had suddenly come across the addition. She thought, however, as she glanced at him surreptitiously, that she liked this more rugged look on him. The Sentinel armor was striking, and she was sure Fen’Harel had chosen it for that very reason, but this…brought him down to earth, while simultaneously reinforcing that he was not a mere mage: he was a force to be reckoned with.

She did not think he had caught her staring, but when he turned and looked straight at her, there was no escape.

And then he said, “Ixchel, you’re staring.”

Ixchel was glad at least that she was a good bluff, because she did her best to control her blush and face to seem unabashed. “Just wondering when you stopped trying to pretend you were mage,” she said. “It’s nice armor.”

He was more than her match for keeping his cool. “If I’m to be honest, it was when you started throwing bears at me.” Solas patted the wyvern cuirass with a lily-white hand, long fingers splayed across the dark silver-purple leather. “There was a time when I would not worry. But pride should not get in the way of protection.”

She laughed. “It seemed that Pride has become my protection—how did you get that Arcane Horror to pass us by?”

His fingers twisted around the jawbone pendant, and he lifted it. “They gave me more than just the name as an insult,” he said, “and I turned more than just the name into a badge of honor.” He twirled the pendant slowly, so that the fine cord wound, then unwound. “Andruil killed my partner, to tell me she would always be able to hunt me. I made this into a ward of concealment.”

Ixchel’s was nearly struck dumb, and ice flooded her veins. The world seemed to spin as she repeated, “Your partner?”

Solas’s head dipped. He contemplated the jawbone for a moment more, then let it fall back to his chest. “We were Mythal’s hunters,” he said. For a long moment, Ixchel thought that was all he was going to say. But then, he continued. “We were hunters, soldiers, guardians, judges. Her watchers, her wolves… When I removed my own chains and dared walk among the Evanuris as their equal, some sought to remind me that I was not.”

Ixchel’s knuckles went white against her reigns. She looked down at her lap and closed her eyes to stifle her fury for his sake. She had had plenty of animal companions in her years as Inquisitor, but none were more dear than the black wolf cub she had adopted from the demon-infested pack in the Hinterlands. Banreahad followed her from Haven to Skyhold, to the farthest corners of Thedas in pursuit of Corypheus. He had joined her in the Deep Roads after Solas had left; a protecting shadow in the blackest darknesses she had ever encountered.

The Viddasala had killed him in their pursuit through the eluvians. No one had thought to recover his remains, not when her arm had just been taken from her and she required such immediate medical attention. She had lost so much that day.

They passed in silence beneath the watching eyes of the Guardian Wolf.

“Someday, lethallan,” he said at last.

Ixchel looked across at him. His gaze was still on the path ahead, his shoulders fallen, his brow creased again with his many, immeasurable losses. “Someday, you will know the things I have lost. But today, we will bring some of it back to your People.”

She swallowed. “The People.”

He took a deep breath. “I have been thinking lately of a memory I encountered,” he said. “I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed.”

The muscles in Solas’s jaw worked as he considered this scene once more, as he spoke it to her. “He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars. I watched this man until he died, and the memory yet haunts me of the island falling silent at last.” The gentle rhythm of his voice faded, as they both contemplated his words.

He did not look at her when his voice returned in force: “How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?”

Ixchel, with the intensity of her eyes alone, tried to pick apart the metaphors within the memory, for this question felt like a trap. Solas’s tone begged her: Justify his happiness to me.

Did he view what she had asked him as a surrender? As a ceasefire?

And had she not urged him so often: it is the trying that matters?

Which was the right answer here, and which would set him back on his din’an’shiral?

Her eyes had already pricked with tears as she mourned their respective lost companions. Now, her breath came sharply through her nose as she fought off her mounting frustration. Why couldn’t he face her, place his options and thoughts honestly before her, and beg her opinion that way? When would the double-speak end between them?

When would he trust her?

“Solas…”

He was conspicuously silent.

“Fine, harellan. What does fighting look like?”

The mage had not seemed to anticipate being questioned. He turned narrowed, canny eyes on her now, and found her own gaze hard and unyielding. They watched each other for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

Ixchel drew Eldrhu the hart to a stop, and his own mount continued only for a pace more. She watched the sharp lines of his silhouette as the tension mounted in his shoulders, even in his ears. “I don’t think that passively accepting your fate constitutes a fight,” he said at last.

“I know this is rich, coming from me,” she said, “but must everything be a fight? Was he passively accepting his fate? Do you know his thoughts?” She sighed. “There are many things I could say, Solas, that might all be true. I could say there is no shame in being content with the memories and ghosts of what he loved, if they’re enough to sustain him. I believe that we should be so lucky to find such contentment, that our existence could be so content, and passive.”

Her hands shook, and her hart tipped its head around to look at her, for her knees were squeezing its ribs as well. She was afraid in this moment, so very afraid, because it felt like a life was in her hands, and she was afraid that she was both the weapon and the shield at once.

“But if he was not content with his fruit juice and memories of his lost loves, I might say, it is a shame that his fear of the unknown held him back—fear that nothing would come of the effort, or it would be worse than he possibly imagined. He could have, as you say, gone Elsewhere and found new people to make his own. I think you imply he could have found happiness in forgetting the past and moving forward. But I say that, if he reached Elsewhere, then he could also make it more with the gift of his experience. And in any and all cases, he might still have felt alone. Or he could have found, perhaps, a companion willing to understand his trauma and welcome him, and it, on the journey ahead.”

She pulled the reigns tight in her hands. “Solas, tell me truly. What does fighting look like?”

“I do not know anymore,” he said. “That is why I asked.”

Ixchel’s throat closed as painfully as if a noose had tightened around it. “I can’t tell you that. Especially if you won’t open up to me about what you want.” Her breath rattled at the back of her mouth. “You haven’t even told me what your plan to restore what you lost was.”

He moved slightly, as though he were about to turn to her, then thought better. Whatever breath she had been holding, she lost. His silence had hit her, reopened an old wound that she had been foolish to forget. Even as she urged Eldhru to continue, her heart raced in her chest like she were crossing through a war zone.

“Someday,” she repeated as she passed him by. “I want you to be happy, Solas. Someday, you might accept that.”

She felt his eyes on her back as she led the way down the path.

“I do not doubt you, Ixchel,” he said from behind her. “I only doubt myself.”

Me too, she thought angrily, and she continued leading him without any of the little excitement she might have held for meeting with Hawen and Clan Feratherien after so much time.

-:-:-:-:-


	65. Chapter 79 Excerpts

Ixchel wished she could feel happy in the wake of her success with the clan. As it stood, she could not bring herself to claim a victory, with the Dread Wolf hiding in her shadow.

Toward the end of the day, Ixchel, Solas, Valorin, and Taven set out to close the rift on the river and investigate the rumors of Lindiranae’s Talisman. It was an unusual experience for her to be the lone warrior in a group of mages, but with so many barriers upon her she was able to disrupt the rift unbothered even by the Rage demon’s flames, which left the demons stunned and helpless before her chromatic greatsword. Though Valorin was certainly inexperienced, his fire burned hot, and when they found Freemen holdouts in the hidden Shrine to Sylaise, he penned them in a blazing ring until they threw their weapons down and surrendered.

“I’ll watch them,” she said to the others. “Go see what you find.”

Solas watched the boys tackle the elemental barrier and disappear into the next chamber. “A humble shrine,” he mused. “I wonder what it was meant for.”

Ixchel was still at a loss for what to say to him amid her frustration, though she sensed that he was extending an olive branch. Fuck Sylaise, she thought. I don’t care.

  


Ixchel and Solas left their mounts at the camp and traveled beside the aravel on foot. The whisper of wind in its sails and the groan of its wheels stirred warm memories of Markham and Terinelan and the Lavellan Clan from when she was a much younger girl. The afternoon sun filtered through the red-and-gold silks of the banners of the Feratherien noble house, preserved through the centuries since the fall of the Dales by her people.

Their people.

Ixchel asked Hawen about his travels, about famines and lean times, of friendly human settlements and skirmishes with wild things in the forgotten places of the world. She had known many things about Hawen already, but guiding him to topics like the ruins he had explored as a young man felt natural, and she didn’t mind hearing the stories again; after all, it had been many years since she’d heard them.

The Inquisition camp turned their whole attention on to the aravel as it approached, led by the small fleet of nimble halla. Ixchel paused to introduce the captain, and Cassandra. Several of the non-Dalish elves present in the camp seemed in awe of them, and Ixchel decided then and there to introduce every single one of them to every single one of the clan Hawen had brought along. Their accents were varied—Fereldan, Marcher, Orlesian and more—and some of them stumbled over the Dalish greetings, but Ixchel’s throat went tight at how regally and warmly Hawen accepted their attempts and greeted them in return.

Several of her non-Dalish elves accompanied them through the fens to the hidden entrance to Andruil’s vault, to help stave off the gurguts. They stood guard while Ixchel and Solas led the clan members inside, just in case another Horror or something else had taken up residence in the crypts once more.

Fortunately, the soldiers Ixchel had sent to guard them were alive and well. They nodded politely and backed away to allow them free reign of the crypt.

Several of the clan members began cataloging and packing the weapons, while Ixchel led Hawen around the other chambers.

They contemplated Ghilan’nain’s tomb in silence for a long, long time.

“It makes sense to me,” Hawen said at last. “If Ghilan’nain was given godhood and a new, beautiful body—that others would seek such boons from Andruil, after such a test.”

Ixchel nodded. “One wonders how such things were possible. Curing her blindness by turning her into a halla? Or her own ability to create monsters.” She grimaced. “The Graves are full of giants.”

“Has Ithiren told you of hanal’ghilan?” Hawen asked with a chuckle. “I have not ventured out to see her myself, but he swears he saw her himself. He fears for her, with all the roaming shems.”

“Hanal’ghilan?” Solas repeated.

“The golden halla,” said Hawen. “She is called the Pathfinder. In times of great need, she comes to show the way.” 

“I believe she was seen around Var Bellanaris,” Ixchel said, with a hand pressed to her forehead while she tried to recall it. That had been so long ago, and her memory of hanal’ghilan was that of the golden halla leading her into the Temple of Fen’Harel, up to those frescoes that had, at last, revealed to everyone else what she had known for so long…

“Solas doesn’t want to be that kind of wolf!”

She sighed. “Solas and I will deal with the demons tomorrow, Amelan, and see if we can’t find hanal’ghilan.”

“Thank you, da’len.” Hawen laid a careful hand on top of Ghilan’nain’s gravestone. “As she was raised up from mortal men to stand with our Creators, so let you be raised, to defend this world,” he murmured.

Ixchel swallowed her grimace and bowed her head to acknowledge his prayer, and she knew that Solas’s eyes watched her every reaction. She was just thankful that he did not speak to the elderly Keeper of his painful truths. At least, not yet.

-:-:-:-:-

The night’s tale was that of Harralan, an elf from the Brecillian Forest who became possessed by a Rage demon.

“He, like many of us, looked in awe upon the accomplishments of our ancestors,” Hawen said. “He dreamed of Arlathan, when the People were masters of the land and emperors in their own rights. I remember, as a young man myself, that he argued at an Arlathvhen that we should rise up and take back what was ours, instead of continuing the pageantry of our lives as wanderers living out of wagons. It was many years after he left his clan that I found out what happened to him…”

Instead of seeking glory in the past and celebrating it and carrying it forward, every reminder was just another stark comparison for how the modern elves were shameful shadows of their ancestors. Harralan’s mind was aflame with vengeance, and he heard the call of the demon bound deep within the forest. When he returned to his clan, he had been transformed into something almost beyond recognition. He called himself Mythal’len’nan.

He had killed many shem, and he threatened his clan: either they help him reclaim Thedas for the elves in blood and glory, or he would kill them all as his enemies. The clan had nearly been wiped out in their effort, for Leanasha’nan had become a creature of rage, and hate. For all he espoused of concern for the People, he understood nothing of sympathy, compassion, forgiveness, or leadership. Instead, he sought to enslave his own People to his vengeful will—and in doing so, become little better than those who destroyed Arlathan in the first place.

Ixchel tried her damn best not to look at Solas as Hawen told this tale. She had truthfully never heard such a story before, and she hoped Solas did not think she had somehow influenced Hawen into telling it in his presence.

When she did dare to glance in his direction, she saw him touching the jawbone on his chest, staring at her. Somehow, though she could not pinpoint the exact reason, her heart felt as though it had fallen to the bottom of the Buried Sea.

Hawen allowed them to break out a cask of manise after they had reflected on the lessons of Harralan and Mythal’len’nan and how it might pertain to the choices ahead of them all. Ixchel had been trying her best to build up her tolerances with human liquors, but as always, the Dalish stuff hit her like a bronto.

The night passed in a blur, and then, out of seemingly nowhere, she found herself walking under the stars in an open field with Solas.

She came back to herself in that moment and felt very dizzy.

“Oh,” she said softly. He looked down at her, a sharp motion. What had they just been talking about? “Lethallin, I’m drunk.”

Solas laughed; a fuzzy heat filled her at the sound. “As you should be, Ixchel,” he purred, and warning horns blew in the back of her mind. “You have accomplished so much today of what you had thought nearly impossible. You deserve to celebrate.”

“Is that what we were talking about?” She frowned and ran a hand through her hair, nearly dislodging the Ardent Blossom. She hurried to fix it, then sighed and sat down in the tall grass to begin picking it out of her hair entirely. Solas laughed again, and his eyes glimmered with good humor as he knelt in front of her and took the blossoms from her hands as she freed them. “If I haven’t apologized already, I should,” she said under her breath. Her mouth tasted so strongly of liquor. “I swear I didn’t know Hawen was going to tell that story. I’ve never even heard that story before.”

“Ixchel,” he said in a low voice. She blinked and focused on his face. His smile had dimmed a little. “I know. You’re not one for parables.”

“But you are,” she said with a twist of her face.

He snorted. “You could not call me hahren if I weren’t,” he pointed out. “And then where would you be?” She smiled a little, and they were quiet for a moment as she worked on a particularly tangled piece of Felgaral Dir’vhen’an. He watched her intently as she took the task with the slow, deliberate focus of the very drunk. She had almost forgotten he was there until he spoke again, somber: “I was alone for so long, lethallan, living among ruins and memories. They told their stories to me—they had no one else to listen. And now I would tell them to you.”

Ixchel’s breath caught. She bit her lip to hold it in, for she felt like bursting, suddenly, as she looked into his eyes and found them both sad, and bright.

Oh.

“That’s beautiful, but I’m still angry at you,” she said in her most disgruntled tone. She crossed her arms. Half of the Ardent Blossom still remained in her hair, but it was more important in that moment to brace herself physically as she stared him down. “You are thousands of years old, and you are very smart regardless, and I know you too well. You can make your own decisions, or speak plainly about them so I can help you!”

“Yes,” he said. There was a note in his voice that she didn’t recognize, but she did not have long to dwell on it, because he was speaking again. “My plan, Ixchel, was to reclaim the orb Corypheus wields so clumsily and use it to tear down the Veil. With the Fade once again imbuing all things, and as the world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time…the world of the elves.”

He held her gaze the entire time he spoke, watching as absolutely no surprise, no shock, not even horror crossed her face. She bit her lip still, still crossed her arms, but now it was not to support herself but to contain herself. She did not blink. She was afraid he might vanish into the night, slip through her fingers now just as he had so many times. They had had this conversation before.

“You must understand,” he continued after a moment, and his voice was rough and laden with emotion—it was desperation, she realized. “I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked every conscious connection to the Fade. Even the most powerful mages pull upon its powers like one might tug on a loose thread. I was…impatient, frantic, even, to put my plan in motion and restore what was lost.” He exhaled raggedly. “My people live, in my mind, in my time, Ixchel. It is not a foolish—it is not simply a foolish fantasy to want to return. I could. And the people who live now—you—are real, too. Every moment I do not act is another moment of torment, another Blight, another broken heart.”

Ixchel sucked in a sharp breath.

“I know,”  she said, nearly a rasping wail. “I understand, Solas. The future I went to? I know that it happenedto the world. Just because I’m here, in a timeline where it was averted, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Leliana became a ghoul. You—you— I saw you…”

She turned her head and coughed to disguise a sudden sob, for it was not only Fen’Harel with the blood of worlds on his hands.

Solas took those hands of hers and placed the bundle of Ardent Blossoms in them with care. “I have often underestimated you,” he admitted. “And I have often not heard you, even when you speak plainly to me. I know.”

Ixchel drew her gaze back to him, though it took all her strength. “Then listen now, Solas, to how I have thought of this conversation—for so long. I would tell you that I am only asking you to let the wheels of entropy turn. Let the blood on your hands dry, and leave the guilt to lay upon the mechanisms of the world,” she said in a rush. “But you would say, ‘I made the mechanisms of the world, and there is blood on my hands regardless,’ and use that to justify continuing with your plans.”

“I would have,” he said quietly.

She nearly crushed the blossoms in her white-knuckled hands. The moment stretched long and taught. In the pale starlight, his eyes seemed nearly white in the depths of his hood. He was an unknown to her, a blank mask. She stared at him in spinning silence, as the stars wheeled high above them and the songs of the crickets and night birds in the distance ceased, attentive to him—the Maker and the Destroyer, Betrayer and Trickster, Liar and Rebel.

“But… I have already gone to Elsewhere,” he whispered. “And I have found someone I would like to make my own. I could find happiness with you.” His head slowly dropped to the side, and his hood slipped back to free one ear, let one side of his face illuminate in the soft starlight from above. “But the moment I accept that…is the moment that an entire world dies at my hand. It is the din’an’shiral no matter which path I take. But it is my duty to restore my People.”

Ixchel closed her eyes. She felt the cold of the night seep into her, from the ground, from the air; it swept through her hair and into somewhere deep in her. With it came a shining, crystal moment of sobriety—or the worst kind of intoxication. Detached from herself, both lucid and dreamy all at once, she said:

“The memory-magic that speaks in voices, feelings…images. I found another, long ago. I did not understand what I saw, but now I recall it: a vine as tall as a tower, spiraling into the sky. Many of them coiled together as I watched, reaching as they blossomed. The flower buds were as big as a man, and the open petals were as large as lakes.” She took a deep breath, and she could almost smell the memory of citron, the fresh sky, and sweet death all at once. “And I watched the blooms die, one by one until there was only one left, on one vine. The observer watched it wither, too, and they wept, and recorded the memory. ‘It was the last of its kind, and so much more than the last of me,’ they said, and then they left for uthenera—to be able to remember the flowers forever.”

She tilted her head back to look up at the sky, though she did not open her eyes. “Maybe that was their din’an’shiral. But what was the point of this memory? It had been hidden away, not even in a place of prominence, until I found it. The point was the act of outpouring itself. They gave that flower new life in the retelling alone.”

She took a deep breath, then released it to the heavens in a long, slow sigh.

“My duty is not to spend my life searching for the alchemy or the magic to bring that vine back to life, to replant it, to breed it.” She smiled a little, sad, heavy—sleepy, despite herself. “I may not live forever, but for now, that flower has new life in me. And my duty to that flower, and to the Rememberer, is to give it new life in the retelling.”

Solas jerked as though she had stung him with her words. She looked back down from the sky to find his gaze fixed sharply on her, his delicate lips parted in surprise, speechless at her. Helpless surprise had never been so enrapturing, but she could not look away. From the light in his eyes, to the soft waves of starlight falling on his high cheekbones and sharp brow, he was beautiful, and he was broken. Likewise, it seemed that he saw her again in a new light, and the intensity of his sudden attention on her made her insides twist and burn.

Solas gave a slight shake of his head as though chiding her—or himself.

And then he surged forward, and he kissed her.


	66. Chapter 80

4974

It was unlike any other kiss they had shared. It was fierce, it was fast, it was desperate. Every line of his body was tense beside her, pushing, and she had to reach up to cling to him for fear that she might fall. Where their first real kiss, under the stars in the Hinterlands, had ebbed and flowed like a placid lake upon its shore, this kiss surged and surged like a tempest. She was lost in the kiss, dizzied by it; his mouth was hot against hers, and upon her startled breath he pressed closer as though to consume her entirely. There was nothing she could do but let him kiss her ardently, let his lips and jaw work to express himself in that moment.

They breathed so raggedly when they drew apart, it was as though they had just slain a dragon. Ixchel met his gaze fiercely, fearlessly, assessing him from beneath the heavy fringe of her lashes. His eyes were clear, and they were dark, and they were honest; she found no apology there, none rising to his lips.

Yet even now, words rose to hers that she knew she could not let herself speak—not yet, not now—but she also knew that she could not contain them. To silence them, yet still to speak them without words, she tightened her grip on his cloak and pulled him back to her urgently.

He was more than willing to kiss her again, and this time he tugged at her lower lip with his teeth until she was gasping and allowed his tongue entrance to her mouth. His hands stoked both flames and shivers wherever he touched: they were against her cheeks, behind her ears, in her hair, along her neck; he held her to him by her face alone and ravished her mouth.

Her mind was a whirling, swirling storm of utter want; she had never known such a potent longing before. It felt as though her heart wanted to leap out from its cage and join his. She could imagine that this was what it must feel like, as a Spirit, to fully encompass one’s purpose. It was at once a joyous and desperate feeling, and she craved its assured totality. She rose up on to her knees to meet him with the same fervor.

When he pulled away the second time, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Ir abelas,” he whispered. “I have loved you all along, Ixchel.”

She slid her hands around his shoulders, pressed the flat of them against the blades and curled her fingers back to harness him there, to ground him. She opened her eyes and found him so close that even in the dark, she could count the freckles that dusted his nose.

Ixchel again felt the pull deep in her chest, in her being—a promise so close to being fulfilled. “’Ma’sal’shiral,” she told him softly.

His eyes glistened with uncharacteristic wetness; Solas, the ever-immovable bastion, couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe.

Their noses brushed, their lips were but a hair’s breadth away as she said, “And it changes nothing, does it?”

A tear spilled down his cheek.

“Var lath vir suledin,” she traced her oath against his lips with her own as he slipped his arms around her, warm as he embraced her. The Ardent Blossoms whispered as they fell from her lap, and Solas loosed a heavy sigh and bowed his head against her shoulder. She adjusted her hold on him and rubbed slow, soothing paths across his back, and they breathed together in the starlight.

Ixchel was suddenly, painfully sober…and oh so very tired.

She leaned her head to the side and rested it against his own. She did not know if he still cried. She could never know what he was thinking. But he clung to her as a man weathering a storm, and she would hold him until the Veil tore itself apart, if that was what he required of her.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel opened her eyes and regretted it immediately.

She was in the middle of the Feratherien camp on her own bedroll, surrounded by the other sleeping clan members. Her belongings were piled neatly by her head—which was pounding. It was not yet dawn, by the looks of it, but it was already too bright for her. Her eyes felt swollen, her mouth was as dry and Blighted as the Western Approach, and her head and neck felt like she’d been slapped by a dragon’s tail whip. As she sat up, her stomach churned dramatically, but she breathed deeply and was able to settle it after a moment.

Ixchel looked around for Solas and found him still asleep on his own bedroll, closer to the back of the camp, along the wall. She couldn’t, for the life of her, tell if she had dreamed of the night’s events or if they had simply occurred prior to her utter black-out at the mercy of Dalish whiskey. She brushed her fingers across her lips and thought that, they were a bit dry, and maybe they were a little kiss-bruised. Unless that was her imagination.

No, she couldn’t have imagined that whole conversation. It was too clear—too important.

She swallowed. Solas had opened his eyes and caught her staring.

His chest rose and fell slowly while he regarded her. The slight draw between his brows told her that he, too, was thinking of what they had said.

Ixchel knew she should be worried. There might never be a day where she could stop worrying about him. He held the power, and the knowledge, to end the world. He had done so, in another life of hers. There was nothing she could do to close that door for him forever. She knew that this was a duty without end—holding back the end of the world with her arms and her heart alone.

But for now, he loved her. And maybe, maybe, this time it could be enough.

Ixchel could not contain her smile. It was girlish and bright despite the ache in her head, and it garnered a look from him that warmed her in return. He broke his gaze by turning his head away, as though to try and hide his sheepish grin from her. Ixchel treasured the brief glimpse of it like the miracle it was, and it gave her the strength to get to her feet and remember how to live. She dressed slowly in her armor, for she had to stop frequently to breathe and settle her stomach, but soon enough she was ready to face whatever the day might bring.

She gathered up the individual blossoms of Felgaral Dir’vhen’an, and she picked her way carefully through the sleeping bodies to go down to the river and do her hair.

Solas followed when she was almost done. He picked up one of the remaining blossoms and tucked it into place above her ear.

“On dhea,” he said softly.

She smiled up at him, and she was pleased to find that he could not resist returning one of his own. No darkness entered his eyes now—not regret, not grief. The light she saw in his face warmed her as surely as the sun might, and it filled her heart to bursting, until she could hardly breathe. She caught his hand before it left her hair and held it to her cheek. 

No. That had been no dream.

“Ar lath ma,” she replied.

His smile grew, and he was almost smiling too much to kiss her when he dipped down to do so. She kept his hand pressed against her cheek as they kissed, and she was slow to open her eyes when he did lean away at last.

“Ready to face the day?” he asked.

She grimaced. “Not particularly. I would very much like to go back to sleep.”

Solas’s hand against her cheek burned like a hot poker, then grew cool. He brushed his thumb against her cheekbone, and healing magic seeped into her skin. He swept his fingers around to the back of her head and guided her to kiss him again as he pushed magic against the tight knots in her neck and shoulder.

“I was hoping you’d do that,” she mumbled gratefully. Her headache had melted away into nothingness, and a cool, clear peace had settled in its place.

He chuckled. “If you truly plan on herding hanal’ghilan, you will need to be in peak condition,” he said. He held out his hand to help her stand, but instead of releasing her, he drew her closer. Ixchel tilted her head back to consider him with pursed lips, and he drank in the sight of her for a moment more—before kissing her again, slow and searing.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said against her lips, “but I feel that I have quite a bit to make up for.”

“That you do,” she agreed. “But… I also have demons to fight.”

She did not pull away as he kissed her again.

“And halla to herd,” he added.

She stood on her toes to follow him when he leaned back. “As long as I don’t need to chase Fen’Harel, I think I can manage it all.”

He nipped at her bottom lip. “No, now he chases you.”

Incongruous with his dark, husky tone, he still hadn’t managed to stop smiling at her. “You are so much lighter, Solas,” she said in an awe-struck whisper. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “I don’t think I have ever seen you this…”

“Happy,” he finished.

“Is that what it is?” She smirked despite herself, then tried to grow serious again. “Never forget I loved you in the dark, too, Solas.”

“And I you.” He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, and the spark of hope that had been kindled within her roared into an inferno. She hugged him closer, for she had no words to communicate what she felt in that moment, except that she needed to be close.

“We should go find hanal’ghilan,” she said, with no intention of moving. His soft laugh welled up from deep in his chest, under her ear.

“As you say. Ma ghilana, Ixchel. But I don’t think we’ll catch her this way.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

She did not let go of his hand the whole way to Var Bellanaris.

Ixchel shook her head when she saw it was only a handful of shades that had taken up residence in the sacred site. She seemed to recall that the last time she had been here, there was at least one Terror demon. Before she could comment on the disappointing showing, or even move for her sword, Solas had extended his arm and made a motion quite similar to her own when she used the Anchor to close rifts.

Of course, he was much more controlled than she was with the unwieldy power in her palm. A tiny pinprick in the Veil was enough to drag each and every shade to the spot where he had opened the rift, and as they screeched and flailed beneath its green aura, they began to melt and disintegrate away.

“’Ma serannas,” she said, awed. She looked down at the Anchor. “Corypheus called what I do clumsy flailing…”

“But you make it look ever so heroic,” Solas assured her.

Ixchel bit her tongue and tried to ignore him. At some point, she was going to need to inoculate herself to the light-headed, careless feeling he could summon in her with his openly-embraced love. She slipped her hand from his. “I’m going to check the back,” she said. “Keep a look out for hanal’ghilan?”

“Ma nuvenin.”

The Inquisitor unhooked the chromatic greatsword from her belt and set off into the grave site. She found no more shades, but she found the fresh graves of Clan Halveri.

She walked between the neat rows slowly and paid her respects. She whispered to them about their brave Keeper, and the good work she was doing in Halamshiral. She promised them their deaths would not be in vain. She did her best to commit their names to memory.

Mala suledin nadas, she thought to herself. 

She returned to Solas and found him looking out in the direction of the water. “It is true,” he said softly. “You were right to set out early. The sun has caught her horns like a beacon.”

Ixchel reached for his arm and placed it over her shoulders. He looked down at her with a look of gentle understanding, and he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and held her tight.

She closed her eyes briefly, drawing strength from his embrace, and then she stepped forward in the direction where hanal’ghilan grazed.

-:-:-:-:-

It took most of the day to herd the golden halla back to Clan Feratherien, but Ixchel hardly noticed the passage of time. She and Solas raced across the plains with a vigor and joy that was uncharacteristic of either of them, racing and chasing and laughing like children. Perhaps it was because there was no one to observe them. Perhaps it was that the tight restraints of their guilt and propriety had been shed at last, and this was their first taste of freedom after such a long fast.

At one point, Solas nearly tackled her in an attempt to cut off hanal’ghilan’s path. The halla had simply leaped over them on nimble hooves, while Ixchel and Solas had gone rolling off in the grass.

Ixchel tried to end up on top, but Solas—Solas was wiry and wily and intent on thwarting her. When she realized, she gave in entirely and allowed him to flip her around heavily onto her back. She had a wild grin on her face as she lay with Solas suspended above her by one elbow and an extended hand. There was a breathless moment as he hung there, and she tilted her chin up at him, and their chests heaved with the thrill and exertion.

“Ar lath ma,” he breathed. He dove down to kiss her, fleeting, and her hand shot up to catch him before he could depart as she knew he would.

Holding his gaze, she slowly wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back close. His breath hadn’t settled yet, and their cuirasses rasped as he let his body settle against hers. She let herself melt into the ground as he swept his tongue languorously against hers. One of his hands found the shell of her ear as he kissed her, and she gave him a shuddering sigh for his effort.

He pulled away to take in her expression with a hungry, but almost disbelieving look.

Before she could say anything else, his eyes flicked up to something in the distane. “Ah. She’s going back the way we came.”

Ixchel gave him a shove. “Dread Wolf take you!”

He laughed, then took off running from his crouch. She rolled over to watch him for a moment, trying to imagine Solas, running for fun, chasing a flighty halla for her. It was a completely wild image, and if she hadn’t been watching him, she wouldn’t have believed herself. She waited for him to herd hanal’ghilan back in her direction before she leaped to her feet and set off running to catch up with his coat tails.

-:-:-:-:-

When hanal’ghilan came into view of the camp, she seemed to realize where she was and what her purpose was meant to be. Ixchel stopped and watched her run to meet Ithiren, and she put her hands on her hips, satisfied.

Solas caught up with her more slowly.

“I did not think there was anything inherently magical about her,” he said breathlessly. “Yet, for a wild thing, she seems…”

“She knows,” Ixchel agreed. She took a deep breath. She had been reminded of Terinelan, and her heart—swollen as it was with relief and love—was lanced briefly with pain. “Terinelan’s parents were halla keepers. He’s very fond of them.” She looked back at Solas briefly. “Even the ones who pull the aravels are wild at heart. They’re fearful and shy creatures. But the Dalish asked them to follow us, to stay…and they step into the harness willingly.”

The line of Solas’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “A romantic notion.”

She choked on a laugh. “He was trying to convince me that I should ask the people I love to stay with me,” she admitted.

Solas was silent.

“I think it also implies that loving me is a lot of work,” she added. “Can’t deny that, honestly.”

“It is not a reason not to try,” Solas said, coming up beside her. He laced their hands together and held them to his chest. His heart still raced from exertion. “And it has its perks.”

She was beaming as she led him back to camp.

From there, she gathered most of the clan to come investigate the Ancient Baths to the north. She was not surprised to find it swarming with Venatori, and she was glad to have brought the back-up. The Tevinter mages tried to burn their notes before the elves could get to them, but enough of the writings survived after the battle for Ixchel to get a good idea of what Corypheus was looking for. It was unsurprising to her, of course.

“They’re searching for ancient Elvhen super weapons. They think this land was Dirthamen’s, and because he was ‘twin souls’ with Falon’Din, they think he helped hide something for the ‘God of Death.’”

“Fools,” Solas said contemptuously.

“From these glyphs, there seems to be a meeting place, or a sacred space, for Dirthamen’s most faithful,” Taven said, also sorting through the notes. “Maybe Sael Neria will be able to piece together a location based off of the position of the moon with respect to the constellations in this tracing…”

Ixchel chewed her lip. “You don’t want to yourself?”

“I believe we’ll be quite busy with planning the Arlathvhen,” Taven demurred. “Neria has more experience with this kind of thing, anyway. I have never been one to chart the stars.”

Ixchel accepted the notes and tucked them into her cuirass to take back to camp. She would be going to Skyhold soon enough and she could deliver them to Neria in person. What a way to make a good impression, she thought happily.

There were hardly any artifacts to be found at the Ancient Baths, which they had expected, considering it had been out in the open for so long. After burning the Venatori bodies on the riverbank, Ixchel, Solas, and the clan headed back to camp—where Ixchel found that her white hart, Eldhru, had been decorated with ribbons and paint again, like he had in Halamshiral, in an homage to halla on Ghilan’nain’s feast day.

Hawen turned to her with a smile that brought a smile of her own to her face. “Da’len,” he said as he embraced her. He seemed to have no other words, so she hugged him in return and just accepted the pure sentiment of it.

“Where will you go next, Inquisitor?” Talim asked excitedly.

“My fortress in the mountains,” Ixchel said, moving to embrace the young elf next. “I set fire to Orlesian society, so I’m sure my Ambassador will have plenty for me to do when I arrive. I have all of these notes for Sael Neria, and I have things to organize for your clan to arrange the Arlathvhen…”

She hadn’t mentioned the judgments that awaited her, or the doubtless mountain of espionage her Seneschal had amassed, or the troop movements she needed to coordinate with Cullen, or the work she needed to do with Dagna.

Talim’s eyes shone with admiration. “It’s like you’re a Dalish queen,” she said, voice shaking with the thrill of the picture.

“Don’t envy me, da’len,” Ixchel warned as she moved to say goodbye to the rest of the clan.

She clasped hands with Taven last, then let Hawen kiss her brow once more before she and Solas departed.

It was late when they reached the fens camp, but the glow of the eluvian illuminated it like daylight. Soldiers ringed the eluvian, their swords drawn, and Ixchel saw a dark figure framed against the bright portal.

Ixchel leaped off her hart and ran to see who had arrived.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said. “Perhaps you can break this stalemate?”

  



	67. Chapter 82 Excerpts

Ixchel stopped walking. She looked up at Solas disbelievingly. “If that’s true,” she began, then stopped. It didn’t matter now—and as Vivienne had said…she would never know if it were her failure, the Maker’s will, or Bastien’s determination to die that had led to the outcome she witnessed. “What a tragedy.” She shook her head.

Solas’s thumb brushed comforting circuits across the side of her hand, but he did not press.

They returned through the eluvian and found Cassandra cleaning her armor still. The Seeker looked up in surprise and immediately zeroed in on their joined hands.

Ixchel tightened her grip on Solas and let him lead her to his tent. Try as she might to be stoic, Ixchel couldn’t help the giddy grin that blossomed on her face as she walked by Cassandra. When the flap of the tent fell closed behind Ixchel and Solas glanced down at her, he raised his eyebrows and smirked at the silly expression.

“You are so light you could float, I think,” he said warmly. He reached for the buckles of her armor and began expertly removing it, piece by piece.

“I saw all my favorite people today,” she replied. She stood still as his hands settled beneath her chin to unclasp her cuirass. “Hanal’ghilan, Morrigan, Cassandra, Dorian… All while the Dread Wolf hovered over my shoulder.”

She tipped forward, onto her toes, to meet his soft lips. His hands went still as he focused on the gentle meeting of their mouths; he let her kiss him sweetly, chastely, but coaxingly, and he responded only as much as she demanded. When she leaned back and looked up at him, he was slow to open his eyes.

He exhaled in a long, heavy breath. “It is strange to know you call me that, that you know what I am, what I’ve done…and then…”

“And then I insist that I love you?”

Solas focused on undoing her armor again. “Yes,” he said. “That.”

“Varric says the working title for his book about me is: ‘This Shit is Weird,’” she said lightly. “Par for the course, I think.” She did not succeed in tickling his humor. He seemed suddenly somber, and a little abashed. “I can stop teasing you with it, Solas,” she said after a moment. “I know you took it as your own, but it was an insult.”

He shrugged, noncommital. “It is not the name.” He had reached her gauntlets, and he lingered over the Anchor, upturned in her palm. “This is my magic, tearing you apart,” he murmured. “It is my focus orb that marked you for such tragedies, such labor… You are right: my deeds crafted the cruel mechanisms of your world.” He cut off her pedantic reply himself: “At least the ones concerning you. Whatever else, perhaps, might have been an inevitability. I may never know. But this, I am certain of.”

Her gauntlet fell to the ground, and she used her freed hand to cup his cheek in her palm. “There are other forces at work, Solas,” she said gravely. “I am glad it was me, and not, say, Briala, or Samson, or even Cullen—or, frankly, you.” She gave him a wry look, then began unfastening her gambeson while he tackled her other gauntlet. “The answer, in any case, is not time magic.”

His lips quirked in a bleak non-smile, but she did not press.

“Morrigan is one of your favorite people?” he wondered eventually.

Ixchel bit her lip and nodded. “She is very sharp,” she warned. “In all the ways that word could be intended… For that matter, she is, perhaps, the only person I worry might put together who and what you are on her own.”

His eyebrows shot up—then dove down. “Truly?”

Ixchel nodded again. “Very sharp. I love her. And Mahariel.”

“You speak as though you have been good friends,” Solas observed.

“I grew up on their stories. It all seemed very romantic,” Ixchel said.

It was mostly true. The Fifth Blight had only lasted little more than a year, and she had been a very young—and nameless—orphan at the time. She had joined the flood of refugees leaving Ferelden for safer harbors, only to return shortly afterward to a country stamped with Mahariel’s name.

She had been hiding out in some ruins to the south when she discovered what would become her name…and Mahariel had discovered her. She had been in such awe of him, treasured the name he had helped her translate from inscrutable runes into beautiful sounds. When she met Morrigan and learned that the whip-smart, beautiful, powerful witch was also Mahariel’s lover… Well, she and Morrigan had become friends if only because Ixchel wouldn’t give the witch a moment’s respite.

There was an ache in her, where her friendship with the little family of misfits had once taken root. Fortunately, it seemed that Mahariel was right: Ixchel had piqued Morrigan’s interest, proved her loyalty, and now the witch would be steadfastly invested in her—for better or worse. More than ever, Ixchel felt that she were in a position to nurture their friendship again.

Only a few months ago, she had hardly dared hope for such a thing.

“I would like to be good friends,” Ixchel said.

“I must trust your judgement.” Solas stepped away to begin removing his own armor now, and Ixchel went to make up their bed. Her heart was in her throat as she did, for it was thrilling exactly how nonchalant and inconsequential she felt, going to bed with him. Hardly anything had changed—and yet, everything had changed.

When it was ready, she began removing the Ardent Blossom from her hair once again. It had become a meditative process, one that drew her to the edge of the Fade in preparation for a night of dreaming. She arranged the beautiful sunset-shaded blossoms carefully atop her armor, then began running her fingers through her crusty hair. She truly could not wait for another long, hot bath.

The thought only made the chill night more invasive. She thought to keep her gambeson on for warmth, though she worried that it stank of the road and battle. But when Solas joined her on the bedroll, he pushed it off of her shoulders and shucked it off to the side. Her ears burned, and her heart raced as his bare hands found her bare arms. He guided her to her rightful place in his arms, where she curled in to his warm embrace.

Solas wove their legs together, rolled a little more on to his side so he could look into her eyes as he stroked his hand down her shoulder. Where his fingers touched, warmth followed—of both the magic and mundane sort—and he watched her face avidly for the response.

Mostly, she was embarrassed by the attention. She tucked her head down to press her nose into his chest and inhaled deeply. He, too, smelled like dirt and livestock and battle. And magic, of course.

His soft laugh rumbled against her cheek. “Why do you hide?” he asked softly.

“My nose is cold,” she lied.

He snorted loudly, and the sound was so unfamiliar that she looked up. He surprised her again by darting down to press a kiss to her nose. “Ma harel, da’len,” he teased. “Ar lath ma.”

“For, or despite?”

His laughter this time was contained to his eyes. He pulled her tighter and buried his face in her hair. “All-encompassing,” he replied. “Beyond words.”

“As shocking as my love for you may be, Fen’Harel,” she said, suddenly utterly serious, “I never thought I’d see the day where you’d let yourself love me.”

A pensive silence came between them, then. One of his hands bunched in her hair, firm against her shoulder blades. She could almost hear his guilty thoughts making their circuit through his brain as he contemplated her words and the weight of them.

He shifted a little, at last, so that he could meet her gaze. “What is that tale? About the hounds?”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not chew off your tail to escape me, Solas.”

“No, that does sound quite unpleasant,” he agreed. He kissed her forehead. “But the lesson still stands…there is no safe haven from the hound of the Dales once she’s caught a scent.”

“Aroo,” she whispered, and he laughed at he again nearly so loud she feared they would be heard outside the tent. He kissed her forehead again, more firmly, and she snuggled deeper into his embrace.

As she fell asleep, she tried very hard not to think of the Dread Wolf whose trail she had lost, a lifetime ago.

-:-:-:-:-

The trees were strange, perhaps from the north, and though they were lush and full they also had shed such volumes that there was a carpet of gold beneath her bare feet. She turned in a slow circle to admire this strange, beautiful forest, and of course she caught a glimpse of the watchful wolf statue through the trees; it seemed he was ever-present even in the days of Arlathan.

She felt a touch on her ankle, and she looked down to find Solas lying in the golden leaves. His pale eyes glittered up at her, and the faintest of smiles played on his lips.

She lowered herself slowly to her knees and reached out to cup his cheek in her hand. “Where are we, Solas?”

“Elsewhere,” he said quietly. “Rest with me.”

She took up her spot under his arm, her head cushioned on his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart played its steady beat, and through the shifting canopy above them, she could see the burning light of stars scattered across an almost-black sky. She rested a hand on his chest, near his throat, and allowed her fingers to shyly investigate the soft sliver of skin revealed by his notched collar.

Solas wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they lay like that, breathing together, for a very long time. It was curious to her that they would be silent, but she did not dislike it. Nor did she resent it. Rather, she focused on what he was trying to tell her without words. With his touch, his secure arm around her, the unhurried and patient pace of the dream around them: they were safe, and together, and that was the sum total of his desires. 

As she lost herself to the warmth and sensations and sounds of their resting place, Ixchel’s awareness slowly expanded beyond herself. At first, she wasn’t aware of it happening; then, she began to recognize the curious slip-fall that she sometimes had experienced when falling asleep. It was not a sudden feeling. Instead, it was slow enough to almost observe. And as she took stock of herself, monitored the progress of this expansion of her awareness, she imagined that this was exactly what it felt like to sleep with Cole—but she was the active party, expanding as she was, rather than her partner. Cole seeped out of himself, filled the space with Cole, as she did now with her awareness.

And in this place, in this moment as she realized that she was aware, she realized something else, too: that Solas was everywhere. It was his power, his touch, his dream. He wasn’t just the semi-physical dream form below her. He was beyond her comprehension, and only now did she understand.

The slow fall suddenly became a swift plunge, and she jerked in his arms. He seemed to have anticipated it, for his grip on her tightened almost before she had startled, and he sighed.

“I wondered if it were possible,” he said. “Well done, vhenan.”

She tried not to cringe at the endearment, tinged as it was with her bitter anger at a Solas who no longer existed.

“Is that what it’s like, to be as you are, Solas?”

He made a breathless sound of assent. “It is a necessary state of mind to have, when seeking paths to the deepest Fade. ‘A mind smooth as mirror glass, still as stone,’” he murmured. “And in the waking world it enables the most facile connection to the Fade.” He shifted beneath her a little, then brought a hand up to caress her cheek. He brushed her thick hair behind her ear and traced the shell of it, then brought his delicate fingers back down to tip her jaw up so he could look into her eyes. “You have magic in you that is not of the Anchor.” Ixchel’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “Perhaps with practice, it might blossom into waking talent.”

She rolled more onto her stomach, excited. “That means—” Her voice swelled and broke with the strength of her fervor, but of course, she knew that he knew the full implications probably better than she ever could. She bit her lip and buried her face in his chest again.

“You should practice in the Fade, to develop the habits you will need,” he said. “But there will be time for practice.” Solas’s hand settled atop her head, and he began carding his fingers through her hair meditatively. “You have found such strange and esoteric treasures,” he murmured. “A flowering image… Geldauran’s claims… Your awareness of the world, your openness, have made you a creature of indomitable focus and rare wisdom…”

It warmed her to the core to hear him wonder at her knowledge, but it hurt, a little, that she still could not share it all with him. Still, so few knew her secret and the true depth of her pain. With Solas, her Solas, this Solas, she imagined that perhaps she might one day forget. But for now, her past life weighed on her heart like a ball and chain.

If she examined them, the weights felt like futile, and vhenan, and 

As light as he made her feel, it threatened to pull her down into something darker, should the wind beneath her falter.

“Solas?” she whispered. “Would you call me something else? Not ‘vhenan.’”

His hand paused in its circuit down the back of her neck and spine. Then, he gripped her more firmly by the arm and waist and moved her closer until he had succesfully pulled her fully on top of him. Her face was red, she knew it, and she crossed her arms over his chest so she could bury her face in them. It was a strange but not unwelcome reminder that she was small, and young, and his; she was self-conscious, but…secure.

Now that he had moved her, he took one hand and coaxed her chin back up so he could look her in the eye. “Ma nuvenas, Ixchel,” he promised. “Which tongue would you prefer?”

Her face continued to burn. “Any. It’s just that one name,” she rasped.

A shadow passed over his face, but he nodded solemnly, and he did not press.

In that moment, she was so grateful for his consideration it threatened to stop her heart, for it took up so much of the room in her ribs. She stretched herself forward and braced herself with her elbows on either side of his head so she could kiss him. There was a split second before she did, where they were curtained by her hair, that she looked in to his eyes and realized—

He was so unlike the Solas she had known, in the end, that perhaps they might truly be headed into uncharted territories.

The Dread Wolf might still lurk over both of their shoulders. He still could be pulled away from her, or flee on his own. She had spoken truly: loving her, following her, did not change the fact that his duty yet called him in another direction. But this Solas had wavered. He had doubted, feared, and admitted it all to her.

No, vhenan was not his name to say.

And in Elsewhere, Solas gazed up at her with his looking-glass eyes and whispered, “Arasha.”

-:-:-:-:-

  


“Here we are.”

Morrigan activated the towering eluvian and led the way through. Ixchel pushed Cassandra next, followed by Cole. Then, she paused.

Solas drew closer, though he did not touch her. “What weighs on your mind?”

“The feeling of…being almost home…homecoming.” She hugged herself. “I treasure it, though I can’t explain why.”

The soft sound of Solas’s smile filled her with even more of that feeling, and she looked up at him with a muted smile. “Ar lath ma, Solas,” she murmured.

He put his hand on the small of her back. “Welcome home, Ixchel.”

They stepped through the eluvian together, and returned to Skyhold.


	68. Chapter 83 Excerpts

Ixchel quickly dismissed her companions, for it was clear they were waiting for her instructions. It seemed that the gardens had been cleared so that their arrival would go unnoticed and unquestioned; it was quiet, and cool, and Ixchel smiled just to be back. “I’m going to go take a bath,” she proclaimed, and shooed Cassandra off. Morrigan held back, her eyes locked in the direction of the apartments above the garden; following the witch’s gaze, Ixchel found Kieran peering down over the railing. Ixchel waved, and the boy vanished beneath the railing again. Morrigan went to the stairs to go meet her son, and Ixchel and Solas moved toward the great hall. Solas put his hand on the door ahead of her, but did not open it immediately. She looked up at the tall mage and smiled. “I might find you later,” she said.

“Your company is always welcome,” he replied. There was a look in his eyes as he watched her that made her skin tingle—but he did not kiss her or even touch her before he opened the door.

-:-:-:-:-

She found Solas standing over his desk, hands splayed on the tabletop as she pored over an array of research notes. Behind him, he had already sketched out with charcoal the next panel of his fresco: shafts of darkness cut a sharp angle out of Corypheus’s cloak and cast contrasting shadows across Orlesian-style windows. A triangular figure that Ixchel took to be Celene stood tall in the largest one.

He did not look up immediately when she entered, but he did not startle when she put her hand on his elbow. “Solas,” she said softly, “would you sit with me?”

Solas gave her a curious look—well, it was a mostly inscrutable look, but she took the slight tightness at the corners of his eyes and the subtle pinch of his brow to be curiosity. She went to sit on the chaise, somewhat hidden now by his scaffolding. He sat beside her and let his hands rest on his thighs as he watched her.

“I expected this, but it seems like there will be more reprisals against elves across Thedas after what happened in Halamshiral,” she said, turning the scroll tube over in her hands. “Did I tell you the Duke of Wycome was at the ball? He was acting very strangely… So I wrote to Clan Lavellan, because they’re usually out there, this time of year…and they’re mine.”

Solas placed his hand on her knee. “It is not just because they are tied to you. It would be enough that they are Dalish.”

She nodded. He was right, and that was likely true last time, as well, but it did nothing to settle the acid burning in her throat. She sucked in a shaking breath. “It’s moment like these I wish I could get strength from a god,” she said under her breath. “Fuck.”

“Whatever news is in the letter, you do not need strength to read it. You have the strength and wisdom to act upon it. And to do that, you must read it.”

Ixchel looked up at him, but the moment she raised her eyes to his she felt them begin to burn. She tried to blink away the preemptive tears, but she could already tell her lip was going to start trembling soon. At the sight of how deeply she was affected by the thought of her Clan’s demise, his mask broke immediately, and his gentle warmth became transparent on his face. He knew she needed to see it.

And it helped. If she had been with Josephine or Leliana or Cullen—as she had, when she had first learned of Clan Lavellan’s utter annihilation—she would have needed to be the Inquisitor. She would have swallowed her tears and sceamed them into her mattress in private. She would have finished her meetings and written more letters and faed the potential apocalypse that the Inquisition had been founded to defeat.

But she had brought this to Solas.

She leaned into his shoulder as she opened the tube, pulled out the scroll, and began to read.

Da’len,

I wish I could spend this letter lauding you for your performance at Halamshiral. The ancestors surely walk with you, to command such attention and shake the foundations of the human society as you have. Across Thedas, the Dalish have turned their ears to hear your cry for unity. Lavellan would be first among them—if we survive.

For it is as you suspected. Bandits began attacking our clan almost the day after we heard of the news from Halamshiral. The raiders were well-armed and heavily armored, and they came in numbers our hunters cannot match. We sought out the operative you sent, Jester, and with Inquisition help we were able to withdraw from our valley to a more defensible area. Jester says that the bandits were mercenaries paid for by the Duke himself. I do not know why. The Duke has not even yet returned from Halamshiral.

Jester has gone into Wycome to investigate and left me to write this report seeking advice.

We are safe for now, but I fear for the alienage in Wycome. It may be that the Duke seeks retribution for the events in Halamshiral, and if he cannot attack the ‘savage’ Dalish, he may turn his swords on the city elves.

I know you have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter Magisters while representing the People and uniting what seems like the whole world against a world-ending threat. But if you can provide any more assistance, you might save our clan much hardship.

Dareth shiral,

Deshanna

Ixchel swallowed the knot in her throat. She took a breath, and then she turned her face into Solas’s shoulder.

It was not yet the end.

It was so much better than she had expected.

He was quiet, waiting for her to process what she needed to. He was warm, and he was solid, this spirit-man-god-mage. Ixchel inhaled, surrounded by his warmth, his smell; his clothes were fresh and smelled like the spices the Dalish used to insects out of their stores, but he smelled like prophet’s laurel—almost like incense. It reminded her of the first time he had ever held her: after Adamant, after she had fled and reached Skyhold on her own, he had found her in the little Chantry and they had spoken of victories and martyrdom…and she remembered the smell of the incense, and the blood, and the wind…

She took a ragged breath. “I was so afraid.”

Solas wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Rightfully so. The pain of what you imagined is the pain of what may yet come. But that will always be true.”

Ixchel kept her eyes closed against his shoulder. He could not know how deeply she understood him in that moment. “Yes,” she said quietly. “What a balance. The foresight to anticipate, but the…the wisdom to maintain perspective, to remain in the present.”

Solas let out a breath. “You have the foresight, and the perspective, and the power. What will you do with it?”

“Send more support for Jester via Leliana’s network. Send a few more soldiers to guard the clan. If I can find out if this is motivated by pure bigotry, or if there’s something else he’s trying to deflect attention from, then I can act.”

“In either case, you will be setting a precedent for the world to see,” Solas noted queitly.

Ixchel nodded. “I swore I would be an elf standing for all Thedas,” she said. “And all Thedas’s elves. They just need to stay alive long enough for me to do so.” She ran a hand across her face. “I should set that in motion…”

Solas took her hand in his own, and he squeezed it tightly as she raised her eyes to his again; they roved her face, cataloguing it, and his jaw set. “Do what you can. Do what you must. Whatever happens, you are a worthy Champion, Ixchel.”


	69. Chapter 86 Excerpt

Her conversation with the wolf continued on like this for quite some time. She asked if he had met Kieran yet, and if he had had any more trouble from the Nightmare on his own. But when at last she yawned and moved in the direction of her bed, he stood and pushed her with his head back toward the stairs. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Has another wolf been conspiring with you?” she wondered. He simply gave a whole-body shake and left in the direction of the balcony.

She was curious enough that, when she saw him leap off of the railing, she ran over to see where he had landed—only to find no trace of him on the roof or in the courtyard below.

Ixchel turned slowly from the balcony and wondered at her strange companion even as she went in search of Solas.

He was up on his trestle, sketching more details with charcoal on the plaster he had applied earlier. She tried to be unobtrusive as she made her way to the chaise to observe him, and though he did not turn, she did not doubt that he was aware of her presence. Only a soft murmur came from the great hall, muted by the closed door; the library above them was quiet, and the lamps had been dimmed. Solas worked by a light by his side alone. It created deep, sharp shadows, and she supposed that was likely why he was sketching rather than painting—the colors would have been affected.

“My love,” he said, voice low and sonorous and pitched only for her. “I may be a while.”

“I wanted to watch,” she replied. “That was a condition of my permission for you to deface the beautiful blank walls of this place.”

She could not fully see his face, but she heard the sound of his smile and saw the movement of his ears that told her he had swallowed a laugh. “Then come up here, lan’sila,” he said.

Ixchel wasn’t about to complain, but she had just settled comfortably on the couch, and her limbs felt heavy as she made her way to the ladder. He paused in his sketching while the platform beneath them trembled and waited for her to take a seat at his feet. He moved slightly closer, then returned to his work. “There is little by way of traditional iconography in this scene,” he told her. “The humans have remade Halamshiral in their image, and so that is what I will depict.”

She nodded silently and gazed over his shoulder at the completed panels. She could not decide if it troubled her that so much of the depictions were the same as they had been before. Yet at the same time, she did not want to try and pinpoint what was different. How much of these frescoes had been a gift to her, contained his love and his regret, then as they did now?

It weighed on her heavily now, the thought that he had loved her then, too, and denied himself the partnership they now enjoyed. Even now her chest burned with something akin to hatred for how he had loved her, how he had placed such faith in her, and subjected the two of them to such pain regardless.

An analytical part of her desperately wanted to understand—perhaps, thorugh these frescoes, or otherwise—what was so different. What was it that had enabled her to sway him from his course? Was it that she was better now, more adequate, more desirable? A dark part of her wondered if it was as simple as her age, or if he was so narcissistic that he was attracted to whatever fingerprints he himself had left on her soul. 

A darker part of her whispered that he could still decide that she was lacking. 

But darkest of all was, perhaps, the closest thing to a truth that she could identify: Solas had always known himself. He had always known he could not let himself get close to her, to love her. And he had always known he could not kill her.

Ixchel let loose a long, slow breath. Things were different. He was different. And maybe, if she could kill the false Archdemon at Adamant, she might finally begin to believe it.

She considered all of this even as she drank in the frescoes. It was not true that they were all the same as before. Therinfal was there now, with its tragedies and its topsy-turvy towers. But superimposed now between it and Redcliffe was a green river; it flowed from top to bottom between two halves of a golden orb—perhaps each half was a cup, a font of some kind.

She did not know what it was meant to represent. But the gold in the semicircles drew then drew her eye to the faint gold braidwork in the deep shadow behind Corypheus’s tarnished halo; at this angle, Solas’s lamp caught the leafing in shifting shapes that seemed almost alive. She took in the simplistic shapes of the Frostbacks and felt that they were almost too simple—for in the corroded gold circle behind Corypheus, she could see intricate—if faint—runes sketched into the background.

A faint haze of red drifted off of the outlines of Corypheus’s form where it was contained within the halo. Now that she compared each panel to its partners, she was surprised there wasn’t a more concentrated appearance of the red in the Fall of Haven. The red orb that surrounded the Black City in the first panel, the eye of the Inquisition, even the red gate and red haze from the Blighted Future seemed to have a more central fixture than this later panel. She wondered at it, but she did not voice her questions.

Her gaze slipped back up the long line of his body to watch him work, but she got distracted along the way by the lithe grace of his figure. She admired the narrow taper of his ankle into his calf, the lean strength of his legs, and the square, even balance of his hips as he maintained a solid stance while he worked. She loved the wiry muscles of his back that she could see shift as he lifted his arm, and her gaze lingered there for a while before following the graceful limb as he sketched more archways.

Though her more glamorous companions ridiculed him for his drab fashion, there was no denying that Solas was impeccably neat. Perhaps that was why it was so mesmerizing to watch his pale hands, alternately smudged with plaster and dusted with black charcoal.

Ixchel’s eyes gradually grew heavy with sleep, and in-between long, slow blinks she began to lose the ability to stay upright. She leaned against his leg, and he shifted his stance a little to support her, but he kept working. She wasn’t sure if she actually slipped into sleep for a moment, but it seemed very suddenly that he was moving against her—putting down his supplies, cleaning his hands. “Arasha, to bed with you,” he urged gently.

She nodded slowly and left his side to crawl over to the ladder. Solas watched her as though afraid she might fall, but she made her way down safely and then sat down heavily on his chaise while she waited for him to follow.

He took one look at her and shook his head. “It will not do for the Inquisitor to sleep in her public library,” he said affectionately. “To your bed.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh, but before she could move to stand, he had slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her into the air. Ixchel clung to him tightly, startled by the sudden elevation.

“Very forward of you,” she said breathlessly. But then she looped her arms around his neck and accepted his kiss.

Her kisses, like her blinks, were slow and sleepy. She settled in his arms and let her head loll against his shoulder, and somewhere in-between the middle of the rotunda and her quarters, she fell asleep again. She woke with a start as Solas opened a door with his knee and shoulder, and his grip on her tightened slightly to keep her from falling right out of his arms.

"Go back to sleep, arasha," he said gently. “We are almost there.”

Her fingers felt weak, numb with sleep. Her mind was already fading back into the dark. "I love you," she murmured to him.

"And I, you," he replied. The door closed behind them—distantly. It seemed he was already walking up the final set of stairs to her bedroom. He carefully balanced her and pushed back the thick furs and blankets on her bed to make space for her before setting her down and making sure she was covered again.

His soft footsteps padded away across the rugs and she heard the click of the latches on the glass doors to her balcony as he closed them. She opened her eyes blearily again and saw him framed against the moonlight that poured in from the balcony. He tugged his tunic over his head, then undid a clasp at the back of his undershirt. Then, he was bare-chested; he seemed to be made of moon-light entirely, now, so pale was he.

She closed her eyes—just for a moment—and then he was slipping in beside her beneath the covers in his leggings alone. His skin was hot against hers where they touched, and she pulled away when he reached for her. With the very last of her energy, she twisted and writhed until she had removed her own tunic, and she tossed it out from the bed onto the floor before settling back in his waiting arms. He drew a deep breath as she stretched to press the length of her now-bare abdomen against his, slid her burnt arm around his waist and held him tight

“And you said I was being forward,” he murmured.

Ixchel pressed a sleepy kiss to his breastbone and then let her cheek lay there to listen to his galloping heart, to drink in his scent. He smelled like incense, just as she had recalled, but also paint and plaster. As their breathing settled into a more relaxed harmony, Solas carefully lay his hand on her arm that stretched across his waist. She was suddenly disappointed that she had so little feeling in that limb, for she could only just tell that he was very lightly exploring the extent of her burn scars with the very tips of his fingers.

It was to this barely-felt sensation that she fell asleep at last—though she could hardly tell if she were dreaming or not, lucidly or otherwise. She was in her bed; Solas was still warm against her, his skin like satin where they touched, and he still smelled of something sacred, and art.

She did not open her eyes, though she was more certain now that they were, in fact, in the Fade. She still felt…heavy with sleep and distant sorrows, and maybe this was how he had felt in that golden Elswhere, when he had wanted nothing but silence and rest at her side.

It was all she could do: flounder in the face of all she wished he knew, all she wished she could share. For every ounce of relief she felt for having told Morrigan the truth, for all the gratitude she had for the witch’s acceptance and hesitant warmth, she was filled with an ever deeper longing.

She wished it was Solas who knew.

But when could he ever know?

What did it say, that she didn’t think she could ever tell him?

How could she lay here with him and let him love her without knowing the truth?

She drew a sharp breath and held him tighter. For better or worse, she had learned at least one lesson from her past life. She would not run from him simply because she did not know how to tell him the truth. He could kill her if he liked, if he found out before they were ready. But she would not run from it as he had.

Is that love? she wondered. If so, he may never know how much she loved him in that moment.

Solas swept his hand from where it was dancing across her wrist, up to her shoulder and then her ear, to trace the line of it beneath her hair. 

“A troubling day for my love?”

“A busy one,” she agreed quietly. “I’ve done all I can for the clan, for now. I’ll judge Blackwall tomorrow. We’re close to uprooting Samson from his base of operations. I think I have a plan to save the Wardens… Morrigan and I had a good conversation about what Corypheus might be planning…” She sighed. “There’s so much I need to do.”

His chest rose and fell as he, too, sighed. “Ir abelas.”

“Apology accepted,” she murmured. She turned her head to press another kiss to his chest, above his heart, and she caught his eye reflecting moonlight in the murk. It left her breathless; his touch behind her ear was suddenly electric. As her skin turned to gooseflesh, every fiber of her being demanded that she be so close to him that they would be indistinguishable. Whether it was to contain him within her, or to be contained within him—it did not matter.

Having been near Amarok so recently, she recognized it was a similar connection, but not complete. Desperately, terribly, incomplete.

His breath, too, caught in his throat.

Ixchel caught the corner of her lip in her teeth and closed her eyes. Maybe she had been a little forward. He had only finally pledged himself to her a few days prior. A few days prior to that, she had bedded another man.

She had no idea how this was supposed to go, really. Love.

When she had the courage to look at him again, she found that he watched her intently, as though afraid to startle her.

“Why do you hide?” he asked, and the words escaped him barely as a breath.

Whatever insufficient explanation she might have offered died in her throat as a strangled noise. His fingers whispered against hers as she drew herself up, and she braced herself with one arm to look down at him. Her long hair swept down from her shoulder and danced on his chest; her ear twitched to be free of it.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she watched his eyes slide down from her face—but not to her bare chest. They followed as he instead traced a path with his hand, up from her burnt elbow to her shoulder, then across the line of her collarbone. He traced the swirling scars from an Arcane Horror’s necrotic magic with the pads of his fingers, then the dimpled skin of her neck where Terror’s teeth had left their mark. Still with only the barest touch, he followed the tense line of her throat up to her chin, to the scars and the ink. His eyes had returned to her face, but he touched her like he was blind—cataloging each of the tears, the deep cuts, the nicks.

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip as he curled the rest of his fingers around her cheek.

Ixchel found, suddenly, that she was no longer tired.

Solas let his hand, at last, slide down slowly from her cheek, to her neck, to stray close to her heart. From the press of his elegant fingers against the sliver-thin scar down her chest, she knew that he could feel how desperately her heart struggled to escape its cage.

Ixchel watched, entranced, as his full lips parted in the smallest of smiles. It wasn’t a shy smile; it wasn’t particularly reserved, either. It was all-too-aware, and it was full of admiration.

Her arm wobbled at the matching light in his eye.

“Isalan hima sa i'na, Ixchel.”


	70. Chapter 87

His husky intonation fed the burning need in her chest, and set fire to her blood. She drowned in his eyes, illuminated by the moon but dark with desire that was not simply lust. As always, his eyes were silvered mirrors, and in them, Ixchel saw the same transcendent longing that had been pulling her to him all this time—

She opened her mouth to reply but her breath had been thoroughly robbed of her.

So instead, Ixchel slid forward along his body to kiss him in a wordless response. As she moved, his warm, wide hand swept back up from her chest to the back of her neck to guide her to him, and his other arm came around her back to pull her fully onto him so she straddled his waist. The moment their lips met, they were lost in each other; she sighed into his mouth with a paradoxical mix of relief and frustration at their closeness.

There was no urgency in him whatsoever as his hand explored her back, as he swept his fingers through her. He seemed content to drink her in slowly, sensually, like the strongest whiskey or the rarest delicacy. Their tongues met between them in a hot, velvety embrace, and she was likewise content, for she had not yet been inoculated to the thrill of his touch. Just the feeling of his wide, calloused palm gliding against the musculature of her shoulders was enough to make her head spin. She could feed off of that high forever.

She lowered her upper body to lean into him, her bare breasts pressed against his chest, and the hand that explored her back suddenly pressed tight against her shoulder blades to pin her to him. She did not resist, and she molded herself to him, pushing impossibly deeper into their kiss.

When at last he tipped his chin up and broke away, his breaths were deep and ragged. She peered down at him and found him so flushed and well-kissed, it took every ounce of her resolve not to dive back and pursue him.

They breathed together for a moment. In the comfortable pause, they gazed upon each other and assessed the choice laying before them.

"This will attract attention," he said under his breath.

Ixchel tilted her head. "I don't care what they think. That you're an apostate? Another elf? That you're too old for me?"

His eyes lit up with mischief. "I meant demons, 'ma’lath. Did you not realize where we were?"

She rolled her eyes and dipped down to press a faint kiss to the corner of his smirking mouth. "Of course I knew," she said under her breath, and then she kissed his chin. "I just didn't think that my ancient Elvhen rebel mage was bothered by demons?"

Her lips found the corner of his jaw as she spoke, and his hips shifted beneath her tellingly.

"I'm generally not a voyeur, no," he said, "and my blood does not run hot in the face of danger as yours might, Champion—"

His breath seized, and his fingers tightened in her hair as she pressed an open-mouthed kiss a little further down his neck.

"It's a shame," she sighed against his skin. "I always find more courage in the Fade."

Solas chuckled and pulled her back up to his lips with a gentle tug of her hair. Between shallow, receding kisses, he uttered a ragged, "Me too."

But he was right. She heard something rattle out on the balcony, and a split-second later, all the light in the room was blocked out by a massive figure.

"I have found you again, da'len," the Nightmare whispered—but its voice was muted as though by a vast distance.

She and Solas had both turned their heads to stare at the tidal wave of power and fear that was the Nightmares puppet projected into this realm. A six-eyed shadow pressed against the glass; its red maw dripped red lyrium and its breath was pure, distilled Fade magic, and all six of its hungry eyes were locked on them

Then, suddenly the image was but a fresco. Instead of the sinister red eyes, this wolf wore an intelligent, if innocent and perhaps a bit awed expression. It walked in the wake of the moon, and a familiar figure led the way—arms and head flung back in the moon's light, full of blind abandon.

Ixchel immediately rolled off of Solas and stood. She did not look at the ‘self-portrait by Fen’Harel,’ as the Ban-Hassrath had supposed it might be; one day, it would be brutishly chipped out from its home and dragged to the Darvaarad. They were not in the Darvaarad, but that did not matter. It was dangerous for her to be here, especially with the Nightmare’s tendrils seeking her through the Fade—

It did not need to reach her to hurt her.

For her heart wrenched at the thought of that heedless figure flying through the Fade, the lightness of that form, the fearless and unperturbed expression of the wolf that followed. When she had seen him next, at the heart of his refuge, it had been so hard to reconcile that innocence with the deep shadows he cast—and the burden he carried so heavily on his shoulders—and the grief he wore like a mantle.

She forced herself to look at Solas as he was now and found that he had rolled on to his side to watch her. There was no bed beneath him, just a humble mat with a fur. Arrayed around it were art supplies. Perhaps this was a memory from when he had just completed the fresco behind her. Again, he looked young here—though the long, beautiful hair that marked his early days as Fen’Harel was gone.

And his ever-grieving eyes, of course, were the eyes of her lover as she knew him. As she had always known him.

Those eyes were on her without expectation, without any offense due to the her abrupt departure from his side. There was only concern in them, and that almost hurt her more.

She closed her eyes, and in the short span of that brief darkness, Solas had stood and moved closer to her. He did not touch her, but his warmth and his presence surrounded her. “It still seeks you,” he murmured.

Ixchel held her hands between them, palms turned up to reveal the Anchor. She willed Adhleadanal into her hands. Her throat worked around a sudden knot, and then she opened her eyes and looked down at her beloved axe: dragon-bone staff, volcanic aurum for the heart of the blade, and a stormheart edge. The staff bore the intricate runework of the most precious dragon- and demon-slaying magicks. It had been a masterpiece the likes of which she had never known before or since.

It was the weapon that would slay a god.

She drank it in with the utmost attention to detail. She tried to sear them to her brain, for use upon waking; too many years had passed since she had crafted such a potent rune.

“These seem right?” she asked Solas, for she assumed that he would be able to assess their magical worth with an expert eye.

As he turned his gaze down to see what she looked at with such focus, he said, with a startled note in his voice, “I do not think you can kill the Nightmare in single combat, Ixchel.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she replied tartly.

His fingers traced the dragon-slaying rune. “This is incredibly powerful,” he confirmed.

She opened her eyes wider as if that might help her remember them in the morning. “Yes,” she said, “it was.” She curled one hand tightly around the grip—leather, padded with imperial vestment cotton and embroidered with the names of the people she loved the most. “And it’s time for it to be reforged.”

She felt her attention waver as something or someone tried to wrest her mind violently out from Solas’s control of the Fade. In that split-second, she was in the Frostback Basin, bare-chested as she was now, freshly painted with Avvar war paint against the cold. Ice was all around her, and the vast shore of the lake, and a dragon-god screaming in her face.

And Adhleadanal in her hands, aflame in the light of the setting sun.

The dream shifted back into place as Solas gripped the axe as well.

Ixchel did not know if he had seen what she had remembered. She did not know if she could explain it if he had, but he did not seem to question it. He only seemed immeasurably more concerned than before.

“If our love is to endure,” she said bitterly, “this needs to end. I will never be able to rest without running until Corypheus is done.”

She bowed her head against his chest and Solas understood that he had permission to touch her again. He wrapped his arms around her and fisted a hand tightly in her hair.

“This is not your din'an'shiral," he said quietly. “You will not face your enemies alone.”

Perhaps he meant his words to give her pause, but they had the opposite effect. There had been a warning in his voice not to leave him behind, not to go face another of Corypheus’s monsters without him at her side. And with that warning came a promise that pierced the darkness within her. Her determination was bolstered—her hope came more easily, perhaps even foolishly so—to know that she had his faith so readily, to see the vow in his eyes.

When they came together at last, when they truly were laid bare to one another—it would be something to shake the heavens.

For better or worse.

She longed for that day, and now that she had a plan Ixchel was not about to throw it all away to a suicide mission. Not now.

Kill the false Archdemon, and then there would be nothing keeping her from finding Corypheus, luring him far enough away from his Blighted minions, and then killing him. With no promise of victory, with no master to serve, the Nightmare might leave her be.

Then all she would have ahead of her was the rest of her life...with Solas. Whatever would come afterward…they would be in it together.

Her spirit latched on to it, shaped itself to it, imprinted that promise in her heart. Perhaps she were only stringing the bow that would catch her at her most defenseless—revealing the flaw in her armor, leaving an opening for Despair in things didn’t go exactly as they should. Yet it filled her with such hope, such radiant and ferocious joy to think of it, she could not bear to release it now.

I will always fight for you, she thought. For us.

Ixchel gave him a gleaming smile.

"I cannot walk this path alone, lethallan," she told him. "I have only ever spoken truly, Solas.” She stretched up to kiss him again, tried to communicate her ardent passion in a way words never could. But at last, she slipped from his grasp.

Ixchel tore herself from the Fade—and Solas pursued. He tightened his grip on her before she could even move from the bed. Here in the waking world, the heat of his touch was more potent, and the coiling feeling in her chest that made it so hard to breathe was nearly unbearable. She needed to kiss him, as sleepy as he seemed. But she did not. She sat up and lay the hand that held the Anchor on his chest.

“Tell me the path ahead, rogasha’ghil’an,” he beseeched her.

He covered it with his own as he looked up at her gravely in the dark. For of course, he was not merely a mage. Nor was he merely a rebel. He had been a soldier long enough. A general, perhaps. He worried where this war might lead her. She could at least tell him that.

“How did Corypheus survive the explosion at the Conclave?” she began. “How did he survive when Hawke and Varric for sure killed him? The secret is hiding in plain sight: his dragon.”

Solas’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “It is not a corrupted Old God,” he said slowly, as though uncertain of where that left them, uncertain if he were supposed to know such a thing.

“It’s not,” she agreed, “but do you know why we need Grey Wardens, Solas?”

He gave a short shake of his head, almost imperceptible.

“The soul of the Old God can jump to the nearest Blighted thing, and that thing that contains the soul becomes another Archdemon. Wardens carry the Blight, and the one who strikes the killing blow will take the soul of the Old God into them…and they die, together.” Ixchel curled her fingers against his chest. “With Corypheus’s control over the Wardens’ Calling—with the way he treats it as just another form of magic that he understands and can manipulate…with the spread of red lyrium through his elite fighting forces…”

A terrible understanding broke across Solas’s face. “They are his insurance plan.”

Ixchel nodded. “And what’s a creature that is so hard to kill, and can fly in and out of danger at a moment’s notice? His Blighted dragon. If I can kill it, then all I need to do is lure Corypheus away from his forces, his Blighted lieutenants…and he will be as mortal as I am.” She gave Solas a grim smile. “That is why Samson must be taken out of the picture, and why no Warden can be left under Corypheus’s control, either. He cannot have any body to escape to.”

She looked away from him briefly, out at the moons that hung high above Thedas. “Storming Samson’s base with the element of surprise will rob him of the bulk of his forces, their base of operation…and who knows what secrets we’ll find either about him, his armor, or about Corypheus? Then, we’ll stop the Wardens from being bound with blood magic, and I’ll send them all to Weisshaupt. Morrigan’s lover, Warden Mahariel, is apparently so far away that he cannot hear Corypheus’s Calling at all. Perhaps they will be safe there. All he’ll have left is his Venatori, and somehow, I doubt that the proud Magisters will agree to be either Blighted or sacrificed. Calpernia, their leader, has already had her doubts raised. She’s a former slave. Perhaps I can take her away from Corypheus, or even turn her against him. And then…who will he have left?”

Ixchel looked back at Solas. “No, I am not fool enough to believe I can do any of this alone, Solas. That would be—” her lips twisted into the most bitter, self-deprecating smirk “—suicide.”

Solas sat up and drew her closer, so that she was nearly in his lap. He buried his face in her neck. “You are hoping that without a master, the Nightmare will relent?”

“My fears are not eternal, like the Blight,” she pointed out. “My fears are, in fact, quite simplistic. I can’t imagine why it would stay on my heel without Corypheus’s interests in mind.”

“I can only hope you are correct…about all of this.”

Ixchel cupped the back of his neck in her hand and sighed at the tension she found there. “Me too,” she said quietly. “A few more runes can’t hurt.”

Solas exhaled in a sharp half-laugh against her shoulder. Then, his lips brushed the sensitive skin where her neck met her collar, and his laugh became something heavier. He was certainly aware of the full-body response it elicited from her; she was still bare from the waist up, and now she was all goose-flesh against him in the cool night.

“Let us inscribe these runes, then, Champion,” he said into her throat, even as his lips wandered upward. Solas still hadn’t released the Anchor from where it pressed against his chest, and his fingers tightened on hers when she tried to pull it away. His teeth found her earlobe, and her skin jumped from head to toe. “The sooner we succeed, the sooner we can find Elsewhere together, arasha.”

It took every ounce of strength she had to raise her other hand to his face, to cover his lips with her splayed fingers and gently push him away. “Var lath vir suledin,” she said again, but this time, there was both a question and an apology in it.

He leaned forward, even with her fingers between them, and he kissed her gently on the mouth. “It shall.”


	71. Chapter 88 Excerpts

Solas helped her dress with only a few distractions in the form of lingering kisses to her shoulder and cheek, and then he followed her down to the Undercroft. Ixchel had brought the chromatic great sword with her, because Andruil be damned she was going to make it her own. She did not question Solas’s presence at her side—in fact, she appreciated it. She was not rested, and she was anxious, and he had seen the runework just as she had in the Fade; he could spot her when she erred.

Ixchel did not consider herself an artist. Her singing was rough and warbly at best. But when she was sat over a piece of metal or bone to etch out an insignia of power…

Blackwall had once suggested she take up whittling, like him. But she did not have the patience—or, perhaps, the imagination—to go from a rough hunk of material into a finely shaped art piece. She could work the most elegant of weapons out of a schematic, but creating a sculpture? Yet this was what she loved most of all: finishing. Decorating. Elaborating. At one point, she had covered Blackwall’s roughly-hewn wooden toys with intricate patterns and paint and inlays. She could turn a flat surface into the scales of a dragon, or emboss leather with sigils fit for a king. Runecrafting was the pinnacle of such work, and it was good to return to it after so long.

Solas sat beside her at the workstation, leaned against the table with one elbow and handed her tools or brushed away shavings as she worked. He seemed more than content to observe in such a way as she incorporated the runes into the scale-like pattern that already embossed the hilt of the great sword. The dragon-slaying rune she added on the opposite side from the inscription that was already there, and the demon-slaying rune she inscribed on the pommel—for she did so often find herself using it to concuss her enemies.

Ixchel toiled through the night in an almost fugue state, barely breathing, so great was her focus; she nodded almost without hearing when Solas murmured a correction or remembered a detail she had forgotten.

As dawn approached, he snuffed out the veil fire they had been using, and allowed the light of the sun to fill the Undercroft.

At last, Ixchel was done. She released the diamond-tipped scribe from her hand and flexed her aching hand; there were red welts on her fingers from how tightly she had gripped the metal rod during her work, and tiny metal shavings clung to her.

Solas took her hand and dusted away the debris, and then he raised her fingers to his lips and imparted a soothing wave of magic upon them with a kiss. “You have given your arcanist a masterwork to live up to,” he said appreciatively. “I did not know you were versed in such artificing.” She looked up at him, and without even speaking, he seemed to recall exactly the exact conversation she was remembering: when he had helped her don her armor before heading to Redcliffe. “Did you learn that from the one who made your dragon-bone armor?”

Ixchel nodded.

“You have a quick mind for learning,” Solas noted. “I imagine that such recall helped you preserve many of your findings, in the ruins of your childhood.”

Ixchel nodded again and leaned in to his side. He surprised her by drawing her into his lap on the workbench, and he circled his arms beneath hers to hold her even closer. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “The People are lucky to have a Champion such as you,” he said against Dirthamen’s raven there. “If I tell you everything that was lost, you could tell it for generations to come…you could give it new life, make it grow…”

His lips slipped to her nose as he spoke, then found her lips again. She raised her hands to his cheeks to hold him as he kissed her, and she swept her thumbs back and forth across his face to feel the shift of his muscles beneath, the soft, smooth skin under her calloused fingers—

“O—oh! My apologies, Inquisitor!”

Ixchel pulled away to find Dagna standing in the doorway to the Undercroft. The dwarf was slack-jawed and starry eyed.

“Ah, Dagna,” she greeted, clearing her throat. She moved to stand, but Solas’s fingers tightened oh-so-firmly against the swell of her hip. She elbowed him. “I have something very important to request of you.”

Dagna turned as red as her hair. “Oh?” she squeaked.

Solas at least allowed her to reach for the chromatic great sword. She held it in Dagna’s distant direction. “I have etched two superb runes in this weapon, and I can think of no other I would trust to infuse them with the lyrium needed for activation.”

Dagna’s face cleared, and she jumped down the steps to accept the seemingly empty sword hilt. “Wow! These are superb! Normally I wouldn’t put runes on an incomplete weapon, though, Inquisitor—”

Ixchel tightened her grip on the sword, and its light-infused blade flared to life. In its radiance, Dagna’s face filled with wonder. “Oooh! In that case—it’s my honor, Your Worship! This is exactly what I was talking about: in certain rational patterns, the lyrium will beat like something alive. You must have the ear for it. And hands. Eyes, too.”

“How soon can you complete them, Arcanist?” Ixchel asked.

“Tonight, if it’s all I do!” Dagna laughed giddily. “Wouldn’t be worth the money if I couldn’t!”

“And we are paying you a lot,” Ixchel agreed. “Thank you, Dagna.”

There was a split-second pause, where Dagna clearly needed the work bench, and Solas clearly did not want to let Ixchel move from his lap. Then, he relented.

The Great Hall was already alive with early-risers, and heads did turn as Ixchel led Solas back up to her quarters. When the first door closed, she looked back at him with a vaguely irritated look—which was defeated by the fact that she fisted her hands in his tunic and stood on her tiptoes to give him that look only inches away from his face.

“I love you,” she said fiercely.

Solas’s eyes flared with light, and her hair crackled with magic. “And we will save the world.”

Ixchel sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. How dare he, she thought hysterically. The light on his eye filled his face, and a smile nearly precipitated across his face. He leaned back ever-so-slightly, threatening to pull her off-balance.

“Shall you judge Warden Blackwall in your night gown?”

Ixchel released him with a push and whirled around to race up the stairs the rest of the way to her room.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found them near the stables: Amarok was curled around Cole, snarling, while the spirit himself gesticulated wildly in Solas’s direction. Solas had his arms crossed firmly.

“No!” he said, with enough force it seemed that he had said it a hundred times already.

“But you like spirits!” 

Solas caught sight of Ixchel approaching, and relief broke across his stern face. “We enjoy the company of spirits, yes, which is part of why I do not abuse them with bindings,” he said without looking at Cole.

Cole likewise turned to Ixchel. “It isn’t abuse if I ask!” Cole insisted.

Ixchel held up her hands. “Now, that is not the best lesson to learn from the Iron Bull,” she said cautiously. “We’re not talking about sex, I hope.” She eyed Solas pointedly, but he simply glared at her.

“I want to help you!” Cole nearly shouted. “But I’m afraid to be bound, like the Wardens will bind their army! I don’t want to hurt innocent people anymore, I want to help, but I can’t if I’m bound by the wrong person.”

Ixchel felt the ground drop out from beneath her. “Cole, that can’t—”

But she didn’t know that that wasn’t true, was it? Cole hadn’t been at the battle of Adamant. He had stayed at the forward camp, to tend to the injured and comfort the dying; it was only after they had discovered the terrible truths that Cole had come to her, sought her out, panicked about being bound.

She did not know whether he could be caught up in a binding ritual if he were actually present in the fortress. And the thought of it—of losing Cole—threatened to end her then and there.

“It scares you so much,” Cole said in a trembling voice. “Adamant. I want to help people. I want to help you.”

Ixchel did not look at Solas as she approached Cole and Amarok and wrapped her arms around the former. Cole was shaking, but he didn’t hug her back like a person. He just stood, hunched and upset.

“If I’m bound… I’m not me anymore. Walls around what I want, blocking, bleeding…making me a monster.”

“I will not let that happen to you!” Ixchel promised urgently. “But asking Solas to bind you isn’t the answer, lethallin. What if it takes away the part of you that makes you…you?”

“Helping makes me who I am,” Cole protested. “I help the hurting. That is what I do, all I do, am, me!”

“And if binding you erases your mind?” Solas interjected, voice cold with his fury. “Your consciousness?”

Cole looked away, shadowed his face behind his hat. “You wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people. I don’t want to hurt innocent people again.” He clutched at her suddenly. “I know you can help. You’re always helping me. You’ve known me. But that just makes me want to help more!”

“Being a mindless slave would not help her. She wants you to be you, Cole,” Solas said.

Ixchel dipped her head beneath Cole’s hat and caught his eye. “Solas is right. And you are right. But…I cannot make that choice for you, lethallin.”

“I may have a path forward, if Cole is ready to listen,” Solas said.

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “If you don’t want me to speak to like a hahren, Solas, don’t speak to Cole like a child, please,” she said. Then she braced Cole. “Be confident that we shall help you. Blood magic is not the only way.”

Cole bit his lip and nodded. Then he turned bodily to face Solas, head low like a kicked dog.

Solas’s face immediately softened at the sight. He laced his hands together behind him as though to restrain himself from reaching for Cole as Ixchel had. “I recall amulets used by Rivaini seers to protect the spirits they summoned from rival mages. A spirit wearing an Amulet of the Unbound was immune to blood magic and binding. It should protect you as well.”

“Good!” Cole said. Then, he wilted. “It won’t work?”

Ixchel hugged him tighter. “It is ultimately your choice, lethallin,” she said.

Solas gave her a sharp look. “It should be simple enough, in theory. He puts on the amulet, and I charge it with magic.”

“But Cole isn’t simple, Solas,” she replied, and she finally raised her gaze to him. “It’s why you two find such comfort in one another, ‘ma’lath.”

Solas’s concerned expression suddenly crumbled, his mask struck aside by her unexpected insight. His eyes were on Ixchel even as Cole wrenched free.

“I don’t matter!” Cole spat. “Just lock away the parts of me that someone else could knot together to make me follow.”

“Would you be able to tell?” Ixchel asked Solas quietly.

He was silent, eyes narrow and wondering.

Ixchel turned back to Cole. “Give Cole life, lethallin. Tell me how you died.”

Cole hung his head, fists clenched. He shook his head once, then stiffened. “A broken body, bloody, banged on the stone cell. Guts gripping in the dark dank, a captured apostate.” He drew a shuddering breath. “They threw him into the dungeon in the Spire at Val Royeaux. They forgot about him. He starved to death. I came through to help…and I couldn’t… So I became him. Cole.”

She could hear the tears in his voice, but Ixchel did not go to Cole. She looked at Solas briefly—then flung her arm out to bar Cole from running past her.

“Let me kill him!” Cole said, frantic. He clutched at her arm and grew suddenly still. “I need to,” he breathed. “I need to.”

Ixchel held on to him tightly and looked at Solas.

“You are a spirit,” he said to Cole. “The death of Cole wounded you, perverted you from your purpose… But you are not mortal yet, my friend. To regain the part of you, to remain pure, you must realign yourself with your nature: you must forgive.”

“And this is the choice,” Ixchel said softly.

Solas’s jaw clenched, but he did not speak against her.

“Spirits don’t work through emotions; they embody them. Such is the cost of their immortality, and the joy they find in their purpose. Mortals, with their freedom, are mutable; they change, get hurt, heal.” She rubbed Cole’s shoulder soothingly. “It’s a difficult choice to make, Cole, but only you can make it.”

Cole shuddered, tilted his head toward Solas. “He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face.” Then he inclined his head toward Ixchel, and he said, “War and weariness, blood and battle, life learning to lead, clash, kill—never to love, only to leave. So you left.”

There was a long moment of silence in which no one could looked at each other.

Then, Solas sighed. “Compassion… An uncommon spirit, and all too fragile, when its efforts to help proved to be in vain,” he said. “The world would be lesser, to lose you.”

“Or it could be better,” Ixchel countered, “if he grew.”

Cole had started to shake again. But Ixchel released him, and she took a step toward Solas. She took his hand, though for just a moment he seemed reticent. She looked up into his eyes and silently demanded his attention, his open mind, to hear what she was about to say.

“It is his choice,” she said. “We will honor it, and whatever the outcome, we will help him help people, because that is who and what Cole is—a helper—no matter what. We will make sure he holds true. Just as we do for each other, and for any friend.”

Solas’s fingers slowly curled around hers, and he nodded.

“How could I put honey in Leliana’s wine without her noticing?” Cole asked softly, but Ixchel did not respond. “How could I know that I should?”

Cole sat on Amarok’s back; the wolf had been silent and watching since Ixchel arrived.

“Solas helps you, even though he’s—” Cole frowned. “But he also hurts you.”

Ixchel squeezed Solas’s hand, and he let out a weary half-laugh. “Ah, yes. That is indeed part of this existence. And failure.”

“I don’t know that I can find an amulet by the time we’d need it,” Solas said, “even with the resources of the Inquisition.”

Cole gave a shaky sigh. “I know,” he said.

Ixchel looked back at him. “You do?”

“The children. I can stay with the children. Their parents gone out to a war they’ll never know, to the West. The Nightmare can try to get them, too. But I won’t let it.” He raised his head just enough for her to see his smile beneath the brim of his hat. “Not while I can. Not while I wait. Not while we wait.”


	72. Chapter 89 Excerpts

When Solas came to find Ixchel, she was sitting on her balcony with her legs hanging between the railing, looking out at the fires in the river valley below. There were far fewer now than there had once been, but she knew that it was because her forces had been sent on the road to the Western Approach already. And that hurt.

She remembered how empty Skyhold had been when she returned from Adamant. It wasn’t just Hawke she had lost. It wasn’t just that so many Wardens had been slaughtered. It wasn’t just that she had fallen into the Fade and been faced with her worst fears and the worst fears of her dearest friends.

She remembered exactly how many of her soldiers she had lost in that cursed siege.

Solas brought a fur out from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders as he sat down behind her.

“Are you truly frightened of what is to come?” he asked solemnly.

Ixchel struggled to speak around the knot in her throat. She leaned back into his chest, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Yes,” she said. “The more hope I have…the more plans I have in place…the more I am afraid of what happens when everything falls apart.”

His breath was warm against the back of her neck. “Failure is a part of this place,” he said meditatively.

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to seem like I was standing against you earlier, Solas,” she hurried to say. “I just don’t want either of us to be making this choice for Cole. We both have our regrets, and…that is the past. Cole has his own future to choose.”

Solas hummed and wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her closer. “You do not know my regrets,” he said, very neatrally—painfully neutrally.

Ixchel sat very still, in the silence left behind. She had to remind herself that he held her trapped against him; he was not running, and she was not chasing. But she did not know what to say, because he was right, and he was wrong, too.

He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, pushed aside the fur and the collar of her coat to breath deeply against her skin—vandal aria again, thanks to the generous gifts of her patrons. “It is not easy, even after choosing to take a body, to change our nature,” he said at last. “That is the irony of the two worlds, how they reflect one another. The Fade itself is mutable, but its inhabitants less so. The waking world is stubborn, yet its inhabitants are fleeting and ever-changing. Eternally surprising.”

Solas pressed a kiss to her skin, only to follow it by sinking his teeth lightly into the sensitive line of tension between her shoulder and neck. She jumped on reflex, but he had tightened his grip on her preemptively. He chuckled. “Surprising in their unpredictable choices…surprising in their consistency.” She turned her head and found him very close, of course; he cut his eyes at her with a critical, but not cold look. “I often think the waking world would be better with more of my kind, with more…immutable natures. It is one of the things I miss. And one of the things I love most about you, Ixchel.”

“You called me a pole-star,” she said slowly. “And rogasha’ghi’lan… It is a lot of pressure.”

A breath escaped him—the ghost of a laugh. “Do you know how diamonds are made, ‘ma’lath?”

Ixchel did not deign to answer that. “I know you know how it feels, at least, Fen’Harel.”

He exhaled shortly through his nose. “In my wanderings, as well as in my life, I have watched many leaders rise and fall. Even victory can be a burden for a leader with a conscience, and a heart. Perhaps it is even worse.” He opened his eyes again quickly, as though he had caught her stray thought, as though recognizing that she recognized his words, that she was not hearing them for the first time. Or maybe that was her imagination, projecting onto his carefully blank face. “For every smallest glimpse I allow you of my long life, your eyes tell me you understand leagues more,” he said. “Paradoxically—you are so small, so young, yet everything I learn about you only leaves me with more curiosity.”

He left the words hanging there to see what she would offer in return. An answer to the question: how do you know so much? The tip of his nose brushed hers as he leaned closer, if only to look more deeply into her eyes. And the look in his eye became slightly more cautious.

He was waiting for her to incriminate herself.

Ixchel pressed her lips into a thin line. He could say what he wanted to say, ask what he wanted to ask. She was certain that, so close to her throat, with his chest pressed to her back, he could hear the sudden uptick in her pulse. She wouldn’t be surprised if he could smell the unease coming off of her in that moment. But, she consoled herself, he could not read her mind. And she had won against him in Wicked Grace at least once. She could bluff him, if she needed to.

But he had just said that he loved her: a peace offering of sorts. It would not do, to be so suspicious of her lover.

“Perhaps I don’t want to show you the wonder I have,” she said slowly, “for fear of seeming so young, so small, so inexperienced in comparison.”

“And yet I do not think that of you,” he replied. Then, after a short, watchful pause, he posited a rhetorical question to her: “Have you simply found so much in your own wanderings, I wonder?”

Ixchel allowed him a shallow nod. “I was blessed to have been born free of the Chantry and free of the Dalish—limited only by my imagination.” She gestured with an idle hand. “Today… I realized what Cole was a while ago…and I have so often heard you speak with him with such understanding, such experience, how could I not wonder? How could I not wonder, having learned so much about Elvhenan from you?”

She looked down at her hands. “I want to know so much, Solas. You will tell me, or you won’t, as much as you are ready to tell me, when you are ready. In this matter, with Cole, my supposition seems to have been correct. Some other ideas, as you say, are not. I don’t know your regrets. But I have always wanted to know you. And I have always known there was more than you allowed me to see,” she said, and that, at least, was honest—for it had been true before, as it was now.

“Hmm.” He rested his chin on her shoulder again. “And I, you,” he allowed. “So…may I?”

Ixchel stared at him, and all thought of bluffing was gone. He seemed a little surprised at her shock—well, that was how she interpeted the ever-so-slight crease between his brows. She was caught so off-guard at his earnest question that she answered it. “The world made me the way I am,” she said softly. “The world put the liar in my mind, to lead me astray. It was a painful process, Solas…and it has left me so afraid.”

She whetted her lips nervously. “And to survive the shadow in my mind, the thing that distorts everything around me—I separate myself from it, examine everything…and that very thing that allows me to survive, that mechanism, leaves me questioning everything.” She sighed. “Even who I am. Every action…even how I feel. All I know is that I love you, Solas, and that is real.”

His face darkened with guilt and grief and pity, and she had to turn her head away for how much the look hurt her like a knife to the stomach. She looked back out over the river valley and tried to keep her breathing even. Her voice had started to shake, and she was embarrassed—because it was true. For all her foreknowledge, for all that she did and did not know of him, there was only one thing that was certain: she did love him, more than she could ever describe.

Solas pressed even closer to her, then raised a hand to tuck her hair away from her ear. He kissed the side of her neck, her jaw, her cheek, to coax her back to him, and at last she relented. As she turned her head to accept his kiss, the arm he had around her waist stirred; he found the hand that held the Anchor and laced their fingers together, then drew it close, against her heart.

She let him kiss her—so gentle, so deep, so sweet that it ached. Caged by his body as she was, she surrendered over to him her worries, her doubts, her fears, and even the hope that, in the end, her love would be enough.

Ixchel found herself being lowered to the stone floor, Solas rolling on top of her. He cradled her face in his hands as he bowed over her, braced on his knees so that his straddling was not imposing, not more insistent than it was meant to be.

“You do know yourself,” he whispered against her lips. “You are deciding that every day. You will it to be true, and it is.” He kissed her forehead. “You leave reflections of yourself everywhere. Rainier. The Dalish. The Empress of Orlais. Look, and you will be reminded.” He kissed her eyelids, wet as they were. “And in the darkness…not all who wander are lost, rogasha’ghi’lan.”

-:-:-:-:-

That night, Solas showed her the moment he removed his vallaslin.

“We were her hunters, her watchers, her wolves,” he whispered as they watched him develop the spell in the dark of night, on a silent plain devoid of life. There were no watching stone wolves to be found; there were no others to help, to aide, as he clearly wrestled with guilt, and fear, and his convictions. There were only the moon and the stars to witness this first act of rebellion at its conception.

“Mythal loved her children, and she loved the People. They were all her children. Thus she placed us among them all—to watch—in their temples, in their homes, across the land… We watched for injustice against the People, and we acted on her will.” He swallowed. “Mythal did not put her people under a geas like the others, but she still asked us to take her brands. It was an honor. It is not abuse if you ask,” he said, a weak sneer in his voice.

Ixchel reached up to press her hand against the side of his face; his cheek was cold in the night, and he leaned into her warm touch with a weary sigh. “In war, I led her armies: Pride, to motivate, to lead. But…it is impossible to be proud of turning everything you love to ash. The vallaslin was supposed to stop such needless cruelty. It became only a means of control. I removed it before she could control me…yet I still wanted to serve her. I freed the slaves of the Evanuris from the chains that bound them to suffer—justice, for Mythal’s children. Even when she would not remove the vallaslin herself. Mythal loved her children…but not enough to free them.”

“Or, perhaps, too much,” Ixchel offered quietly.

His jaw flexed against her hand. “Love should not require love in return,” he responded. “Such is fear.”

“Love,” Ixchel said, “is a terrifying thing.” He turned to kiss her palm and did not deny it. “You say you destroyed the Elvhen, Fen’Harel,” she said quietly, “but they destroyed themselves. It was their choice, their freedom to do so, and you gave that to them. It was not wrong.”

“I did not say it was.” A dark chuckle escaped him. “There are sometimes only terrible choices left. But fear should not prevent you from acting.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you learned my lesson, da’len?”

Ixchel laughed bitterly as she turned away from the scene. She buried her face in his chest. “Just that this was always going to hurt,” she said, and it was muffled against his shirt.

“Mala suledin nadas,” he replied. “At least, you are not alone.”

She sighed and completed what had become their call-and-response: “Neither are you, ‘ma’lath.”

-:-:-:-:-


	73. Chapter 91 Excerpts

“I do not know your regrets,” she said softly, “or where they dwell.”

Ixchel and Solas were walking the maze in Arlathan, but it was dark now; the hedges rose high up above them to block out all the light, and the sight of the Black City.

Solas smiled ruefully—a bright flash in the dark. His shoulder brushed hers, but he did not answer.

“Everything you did, everything you do is for the People,” Ixchel said. “But you raised the Veil to seal the Evanuris away.”

They turned a corner and found a dead end, but Solas pressed forward and the leaves of the last wall melted away into wind chimes for them to walk through. As always—he had this place memorized, with all its tricks.

“What is the one thing from the waking world that ended up in the Fade?” Ixchel continued. “The Black City. And the Magisters who breached it with half the lyrium of Ancient Tevinter and a thousand slave’s blood.”

“Whence they discovered the darkness,” Solas murmured. “They claim.”

“Let it permeat their being,” she added. She raised an eyebrow at him, sidelong. “Andruil’s armor of the Void.”

Solas simply dipped his chin.

“What is Calpernia meant to be the Vessel for?” Ixchel asked directly. “What is in the Black City?”

“The Evanuris,” Solas said, “and the Blight.”

“What is the Maker?”

Solas laughed out loud—a barking laugh that descended into a chuckle fairly quickly, and was not amusing to her.

“I had this conversation with Dorian,” she bemoaned. “What comes first: the Golden City, or was it Black? The Old Gods who claimed it was was theirs, or the Maker who says they lied? The Old Gods become Blighted and turn into Archdemons. The Chantry says that’s punishment for them sending the Magisters to go fuck with the Golden City.”

“I do not know the answer,” Solas said. When she raised her eyebrow at him with a sidelong look, he shook his head. “I mean to what Corypheus seeks. If he believes he can remove the Blight from the world…” He continued shaking his head, clicking his tongue behind his teeth. “No, no, no.”

“It would not be unlike him to reach beyond himself,” she said.

“He wants to rule as a god, Ixchel,” he reminded her. “One must be alive for that.” His lips pressed into a thin line that quirked up in one corner. “One needn’t be alive to return to a time before the Blight. But then, one cannot rule as a god.”

Ixchel was quiet, eyes on the heavens as they roamed—as her thoughts roamed. “Well, if it’s so much trouble to walk in the Fade as he wishes, I suppose that can’t be the place Calpernia is preparing to venture,” she said.

“I do not know ‘where regret dwells.’ I suspect, like most things these Magisters attempt, it is an ignorant misinterpretation of something of the People.”

They reached a more open circuit of the maze—the labyrinth here was all open fountains, channels and hopping stones and thin, winding walkways. Solas took her hand to help her navigate it.

“I do not know what the Archdemons are,” Solas admitted eventually. “These ‘Old Gods.’ They are not obviously remnants of my time, and they are not obvious consequences of my failures… But if they claimed the Black City was their own…if they whispered to these Magisters to open the city, to claim their power…”

Ixchel tugged on his hand to stop him. They stood on two opposite stepping stones, in the middle of a wide pool in which spirits and material fish swam.

“Solas,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut. “We’re so close to something.”

Solas stepped in to the water so that he could stand directly in front of her. It was fairly deep, and his head only came up to her chest; he wrapped his arms around her waist and looked up at her patiently.

Ixchel, still with her eyes closed, traced the lines of his face with her fingertips. She followed the sharp lines of his cheekbones up to the start of his pointed ears, then back down to the corner of his jaw.

“It’s the immortality,” she said at last. “The Blights, the Archdemons, they didn’t happen until the Magisters opened the Black City. And the Archdemons… Their soulds can move… The Blight can’t be what gives them their souls, can it? Unless it can?”

Solas shook his head slowly. “I suspect you are close,” he agreed. “But I do not know.”

“Are you proud of your humility, ‘ma’lath?” she teased. She bent forward to kiss him.

“I am proud of you,” he said simply. “I do not know how wise it was, in the long run, to allow Samson to go free. I understand you did not believe we could prevail against him. But regardless…it was a noble thing, to speak to him as you did, and to let him choose his fate.”

Reminded of Samson, reminded of Cullen, reminded of Adamant—thus the unease slipped back into her stomach.

“I should kill Erasthenes,” she murmured.

Solas narrowed his eyes up at her. His gaze glittered darkly as he subjected her to his scrutiny.

“Retribution necessarily does not allow reparation,” she explained. “Vengeance is not justice. Cruelty is cruelty—and I do not know what Calpernia will choose. I know that he has suffered enough, and he has no hope for change, and he should be allowed to rest in death.”

Solas’s hands slipped up her bare back to press flat against her shoulder blades, warming her, holding her like a fragile thing. His critical eye remained, but perhaps it was turned more inward than before. “Trust,” he said. “All trust is foolish, and by necessity…the act of trust leaves fear in its wake.”

Ixchel stared down at him and felt like her heart was made of lead in her chest. She lowered herself to sit on the stepping stone, her legs dangling in the water, and she wrapped her arms around him in return. She buried her face in his shouder and bit her tongue so that she would not allow the truth to escape her.

It seemed their converstion from the Fade just the night previous had continued to haunt her.

She was not afraid of loving him, that much was true.

She was afraid, even now, of trusting him.


	74. Chapter 94 Excerpts

"Oh no, I tore the tangle," Cole fretted. “Your fear, your fear—‘let go of your fears,’ don’t hold them closer… He hasn’t betrayed you yet. He never betrayed you. He never promised anything. He was only ever his own.”

Ixchel snarled into the mattress. “How can you possibly know that?”

“Your hurt touches his pain,” Cole said, calm against her rage. “It’s part of the song that’s hard to hear, faint because it’s from the end, but it’s been there since the beginning. Ane mala vasreëm—he thought that leaving you meant he wouldn’t love you. Love, sister to Empathy, Empathy with its beautiful chains—he thought it would free you.”

Ixchel jumped to her feet and rounded on Cole. She took him by the shoulders to shake him from his trance, but he reached up and grabbed her wrists, held her gaze with a ferocity that was uncharacteristic of him. “He knows better now. He’s chosen better.”

“For now!” she spat through her teeth.

“If you push him away, he will run!” Cole said, tightening his grip on her wrists as she tried to pull away. “And if you look at them all like they’ve already left, that’s what they’ll think you want them to do!”

His words triggered a visceral reaction within her that immediately made her recoil. She tripped over Amarok, then stumbled away, horrified at herself. For a moment, she had wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him—wanted to hit him—for how his words hit her.

Cole did not seem any more troubled than he had been before. He peered up at her from where he was hunched under his hat with his wide, watery blue eyes.

“Why doesn’t it matter, that they didn’t betray you?” Cole asked softly. “Why can’t you let go of the responsibility? You didn’t end the world.”

She dug her fist into her eyes. Ixchel’s breath strained in her throat, and she swallowed it as hard as she could, tried to keep it behind her teeth.

Cole looked down. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said. “I don’t think I could help your hurt as a spirit. You hold it too close. But being mortal means you hurt like this—and I don’t want to hurt like this .”

“No,” Ixchel rasped. “You don’t.”

He curled his hands into fists, then relaxed them, and then the spirit boy slipped off of the bed and stood. "...Cullen wants me to help his dreams.”

Ixchel held her breath, but then it came bursting out of her in a more vicious sob. But this time, Cole's words hadn't been salt on a wound. It was a balm, though the application still hurt. She was glad Cullen had asked. She was glad she knew that Cole would go to him. She was glad to think that it might help both of her friends.

Cole let out a sigh of relief when he sensed the change in the tide of her emotions and threw his arms around her. She hugged him back tightly. Behind them, Amarok rose to his feet, gave a shake, and then padded over to nuzzle his way between them, a light in his eyes.

“Thank you, Cole,” Ixchel said, pressing her eyes into his shoulder. “You should go to him.”

“I spilled Solas’s paint so he’ll be late,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t want him to see, not yet, but if you sleep now that’s all there will be.”

Ixchel sighed and released him.

Cole vanished, and Ixchel went out to her balcony to cool down. Amarok followed and lay down so he kept the back of her legs warm. She leaned against the railing and put her head in her hands as she tried to settle her breathing. She sniffed fiercely and rubbed her eyes more.

She was upset. But she was upset because she was upset, rather than for the reasons she was originally upset. Cole was right, of course. Solas was so different than the man she had known. As he had reminded her, she did not know everything about him, and that applied to his motivations and his path ahead as well.

Bull…and Dorian…

Ixchel’s fists tightened. No, those hurt.

Dorian hurt for the old reasons. He had known her pain. He had known why she chose to do what she’d done. He had known how deeply she hurt, how tired she was, and she would never be able to forgive him for looking her in the eye and telling her to do it again, and do it better. Her best friend, that was a betrayal. But at least…at least she wasn’t planning on killing herself again. And for as much as they had grown close over the past few months, especially since coming to Skyhold, she wasn’t sure that they were so deeply embedded with each other that he would even think to do what he had done, should, somehow, the same scenario unfold.

Bull, she had been at peace with until just this moment. Part of it was that she was angry for being read so easily. For the distaste and disappointment she had seen in him as he realized what had happened. Fragile.

She knew he was trying to help, and she also knew he was trying to get a read on her for the Ben-Hassrath. Maybe this explained to him why she would run into a burning alienage by herself, risk her life so easily as she often had. But what did he think was going to happen when she broke? 

Cole’s words troubled her. She had wondered so often how her words were interpreted by Fen’Harel, how he justified his actions with her as his model. Especially in the early days, he had taught her history and lore and learning, but he had always watched her chart her moral course. And she had watched Bull, with his Chargers.

It wasn’t fair that he had watched her, too.

Ixchel stood like that for a while, wondering what he was learning now.

When Solas eventually came up, she felt a little more collected.

“When I found all of my paints spilled, I assumed that someone was trying to keep me downstairs,” Solas called. “It did not seem like your doing, but would I be wrong to think Cole was telling me to give you space?”

Ixchel turned to meet him. “I’m alright now,” she said. “You can stay, Solas.”

Solas drew closer, and his concerned expression grew more troubled. "Arasha, why do you weep?" he asked softly.

She raised a hand self-consciously to her eye, then threw her hands down and sighed. “Bull gave me a talking-to about leadership, I guess. Told me not to be so afraid?” She scoffed. “I can’t just stop being afraid.”

A breath escaped Solas, short, but not a laugh or a snort. “Ah.” He came to lean against the railing beside her; he had to step carefully over Amarok, as the wolf seemed uninterested in moving. “It is not surprising to hear such a thing from a Qunari.”

Ixchel tipped her head back and gave him a mournful look. “Solas…he was trying to figure out why…” She swallowed. “With his Qunari logic and all…why I’m like this. What happened. He was right. I think.” Solas’s eyebrows rose slightly. “He guessed that it was something I didn’t see coming. He’s right that it wasn’t just that the people I loved left me… He thought that someone I cared about betrayed me. Pretended the whole time.” Her voice shook, but she did not drop his gaze. “It wasn’t just one. There were two.”

The look of dark grief and pity had reappeared on his face, and she realized that she couldn’t go all the way. Not now. This was as close as she’d allow herself.

Amarok whined and raised his head up for her to catch in her hands, and she leaned down to kiss his wet nose rather than look at Solas beside her.

Her lover released a long breath. “You called your life ebal’en’shiral,” he said. “A path of pain, the deepest sorrow…but despite that, I have always seen that you are the brave guide.”

“I try,” she said softly.

“Ir abelas, Ixchel,” said Solas. “I mourn all the suffering you have survived. But you have survived it.”

Ixchel closed her eyes. Right.

“In telling me…perhaps I can better remind you of that fact. That you have survived every sorrow and loss this life has made you endure.”

Ixchel forced herself to look back at Solas. “You deserved to know why it’s sometimes hard for me—”

But he cut her off. “I deserve nothing. I could see the hurt within you. I trusted that whatever it was, it made you who you are now…and I love the woman I see in front of me. I do not need to know more to love you. I would like to know more, because I love you.”

Ixchel’s throat constricted with tears again, and Solas’s brow eased. He reached to tuck her hair behind her ear, then slipped his long fingers beneath her chin. 

“Love is loss, and trust is fear,” Solas murmured. “That is the burden of a free world: hopes are not guaranteed, and deprivation, a certainty.” He tipped her face up, and his eyes scoured it—traced the scars, the ink, the curves. His breath on her cold face tasted like honey and wine. “You are doing everything you can to act upon the world, and the world will respond as it shall respond. Life is a story written by two hands… That is as beautiful as it is frustrating, as it is terrifyingly unpredictable.”

"Life is a story," she repeated humorlessly. Perhaps her story would not have been a tragedy, had she not written its ending.

Solas gave her the slightest of smiles, encouragement and empathy in his eyes. "What would the happy ending look like, after this confrontation you fear?"

Ixchel took the corner of her lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. She knew she should not hinge so much on the events to come at Adamant; as much as not knowing what would await her could signify an impending cataclysm, it could as much lead to an even better path forward than the ones she could imagine. But she could not imagine the best outcomes, for fear that they not come to pass and thus leave her wanting all the more.

And even if they did…she knew she would never rest, never be happy, never stop looking over her shoulder…never give up her fear. She shook her head ever-so-slightly.

"Arasha," Solas whispered sadly as she struggled. “You were betrayed so deeply by these people that you believe the very world will betray you. Yet you walk this path—you face your fears…you try, regardless. Try this, if only to indulge me.”

Ixchel stepped away from him and skirted around Amarok. The wolf stood and gave Solas an inscrutable look before jumping off the balcony into the garden below, but once again Ixchel did not run to see what had become of him. She held out her hand for Solas to take.

“It’s all so silly,” she admitted as he laced their fingers together.

“The sweetest dreams often are, upon waking,” Solas said. “You know that I am a fan of dreams.”

She laughed a little as she led him to the bed, where he sat and took her into his arms. They were quiet for some time as he ran a hand comfortingly up and down her back. His other hand was still clasped with hers between them.

She had to hide her face in his shoulder, but she tried, as he had asked.

“We’ll save all the Wardens, and Calpernia will defect, and no one will die,” she said into his shoulder. “Few will die. No one will get Blighted. No one will betray us. No one will resist… We’ll fight Corypheus, and we’ll win, and then…”

She trailed off, because she was more afraid of the words to come than anything she had ever said before—to him, or to anyone else. Her whole body was tense in his arms, and she could barely summon a voice louder than a breath.

Solas pressed his face into her hair.

But she continued despite her fear.

“I want to be with you. I want to be happy. I want you to be happy.” She curled further into his shoulder, as though to shield herself from blows. “I want the world to change… See elves and mages and the powerless fight for equality and dignity…protect and enhance magic…preserve what was…and be happy.”

“None of that is silly,” Solas said quietly.

“Impossibly ambitious, maybe.”

Solas pulled her more tightly into his arms. “Arasha,” he began, but then fell silent. Or perhaps that was all he had wanted to say. He ran his hands through her hair, and she held him tightly and listened to his steady heart beating within his breast for a long time.

“Did you succeed in the west tonight?” he asked at last.

It was difficult to believe that she had, only a few hours before, been so giddy at having averted the Warden massacre. “Yeah,” she said. “We encountered a small group of Wardens being led by a Magister in a ritual that bound demons to them—and bound them to the Nightmare in turn. We killed the Magister before more than a handful were lost. Now the Wardens are going back to the fortress where the rest are holed up with Calpernia, to try and prove the treachery to their Commander.”

Solas’s chest rose and fell quickly with his surprise. “The Nightmare?”

Ixchel nodded and turned her head to glance up at him out of the corner of one eye. “Did you realize something? Find anything in your studies?”

“It is a strangely powerful creature,” he said thoughtfully. “Even a ritual powered by blood magic and the Blight as this might be, it should require immense power to reach across the Veil and take another’s will. Of course,” he added, “we are not surprised at its power necessarily. But…”

“Do you think it’s more than a demon?” she asked. “More than just a Fear demon who feeds on the Blight?”

Solas sighed. “You can find anything in the far reaches of the Fade,” he said darkly.

Ixchel couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that escaped her. “Ah. I make the Dread Wolf worry. I should have that written on my standard. ‘If I can make the Dread Wolf worry, you stand no chance,’ something like that.”

Solas gave her a grim look.

“I’m going to take Bull and Cass with me and head out to join Varric in the morning,” Ixchel said. “You and Dorian should stay and help Morrigan research.”

His dark look did not abate. She could feel the force of it on the top of her head, but when she looked up at him fully, his face was carefully arranged to seem neutral.

“I’ll be safe,” she insisted. “I have one-and-a-half armies out there. I have people on the inside. And maybe by the time there’s a confrontation, Calpernia will have heard what we found at the Shrine to Dumat.”

Solas traced the line of her cheekbone to her ear, then behind it. “I fear that it is not merely a demon army they are trying to summon, Champion,” he murmured. “If you are to face the Nightmare—or those under his control…then you might face your deepest fears, stolen from you in the Fade…”

“It will be in the waking world,” she replied. “On my terms.” Ixchel slowly uncoiled herself and rose up to wrap her arms around his neck. She rested her forehead on his as she turned and slid her knee to his other side, to straddle his lap. A warm, wide hand came to rest on her bare thigh, and his lashes flickered as he glanced down at the skin revealed there below the hem of her tunic. “You’re being grim and fatalistic in hope of bedding me, aren’t you?” she teased.

He barely wasted a beat. “I am grim and fatalistic. Getting you into bed would be an enjoyable side benefit.”


	75. Chapters 95-96 (Big long NSFW)**

Ixchel pressed a light, gentle kiss to his lips and rose up on her knees, pressed closer against his chest. She thrilled at the sense of control she felt as his head tilted back to follow her, at the way his eyes closed so blissfully to await her next kiss. She cradled the back of his head with one hand, and the other pursued the line of his jaw to find the soft skin of his neck. She kissed him again, and again, and again, each time with a little more pressure, until at last his lips parted and he allowed her entrance to his mouth.

Solas’s hand on her thigh had also grown heavier, and his fingers tightened against the swell of the muscle there seemingly to anchor himself as she kissed him. He had lost his preoccupation with her hair, and his fingers trailed tantalizingly down her spine to the curve of her waist. The motion elicited another shiver from her, and he opened his eyes to drink in her expression with attentive eyes.

Nothing about his manner had been anything but gentle and kind, yet with just that look he raised the hairs on the back of her neck. With that look, she was suddenly made ever more aware that she had caught the attention of an ancient being whose power had rivaled that of the gods. His breath tasted of honey and wine and magic; the beat of his heart was inextricably tied to the pulse of magic in her arm, and to the fabric of reality as she knew it.

And this beautiful, terrifying man turned his head from hers to kiss the inside of her burned arm where it rested on his shoulder. His eyes flicked back to hers obliquely, full of the same admiration he had shown just a few nights ago, when he had cataloged all her scars and burns and flaws and told her—

He had made his way higher and caught her throat with a light, open-mouthed kiss, and her brain stopped processing language and memory. There was no room for thought when she so dearly needed to pay attention to these precious sensations.

Ixchel shifted in his lap, settled herself more firmly even as she arched to give him better access to her neck. He tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her closer; her heart twisted in her chest with the same yearning to be closer than even that, to become one with him, and her lips parted but did not release the plea that thrummed through her being.

She could feel him beneath her, with so little to separate them. Those light kisses beginning to linger, teeth and tongue added to his exploration. He worked back down her neck to the collar of her tunic and nosed it aside to find the same spot that had caught her so off-guard when he had nipped her there. This time, the anticipation had its hooks in her—but he did not bite her. He kissed her shoulder again, breath heated on her skin—and then he traced the curve of a swirling scar with his tongue.

Ixchel's knees tightened around his waist reflexively, and he slid his hand down from her waist to her ass to pull her closer. So little kept her from his fingers, and he had to know it, but he seemed to be in no hurry to move forward. Instead he returned to her lips and kissed her searingly, a chuckle caught in his throat. Though she was the one atop him, and she was the one who had pressed the initiative as she had, with that single kiss Solas plucked reigns out of her hands—and she ceded her lead willingly.

Ixchel let him kiss her the way he wanted to: deep, and warm, and without urgency but unceasing nonetheless. Perhaps it was many kisses, but they blurred together in an endless wave against her pliant mouth. Each tilt of his head, each pull, each heavy breath that passed between them only built the excitement within her. The disbelief at herself—for shedding her worries for just one moment, that she would allow herself, finally, this one happiness—made it all the more potent, made her all the more eager.

Her senses were dominated by his hot tongue, gentle friction against her lips, the seams of his breeches against the inside of her thighs, and the alternating pressure and ghostly exploration of his hands upon her. For the hand that had, to that point, remained chastely on her thigh now slid upward toward the hem of her shirt, then ghosted beneath it to explore the heated skin of her hip. He curled his fingers appreciatively around the swell of her ass and dragged her down against him again. This time, she couldn't help the breathless, quiet moan that escaped her—and was quickly swallowed by his relentless kiss.

Solas bunched the shirt up until both his hands found bare flesh, and he swept his palms up across the muscles of her back to find her shoulders, then drew forward to follow her ribs around to her front. Ixchel's breaths shook her, and her skin was covered in gooseflesh despite the heat of his hands. And when his long, elegant fingers finally traced beneath her breast and found the thin scar that ran up the center of her chest, the contrast between the chill of the air on her skin and the heat building in her core made her hiss like lava meeting the sea.

Solas's palm covered her breast and pressed, then slipped lower to catch the nipple between his fingers. She broke away from his mouth briefly to take in the look on his face, and she was fascinated at the dark, watchful curiosity he directed up at her in kind. He rolled the peak of her breast between his fingertips as he held her gaze; she bit her lip in an attempt to keep her face schooled—though why she would even try, when her ears were certainly glowing and she was probably dripping in his lap, she didn't know. But even the slightest change in her expression vindicated him, if the heat in his eye was any indication.

Her mind raced with desires—his lips on her skin, his teeth tugging at her breast, his fingers in the inside of her thigh, inside of her—but she tried to keep to the pace he had set, and she returned to kissing him. There was one thing she needed desperately, though: to be skin-to-skin with him, and soon. She worked his coat from his shoulders, and that seemed amenable to him, for he removed his hands from her body briefly to allow her to slip it from him. His sweater she had to tug over his head, but his undershirt clasped at the back of his neck and peeled away from there. The material was waxed but supple, and it whispered as it fell from him and left him bare from the waist up--except for the jawbone that still hung on his chest.

Solas resumed his exploration of her ass and breasts, seemingly still content to kiss her without anything more.

Meanwhile, the anticipation was going to kill her, or at least the mounting pressure of the coils all wound up inside her would, and soon. She did her best to simply admire his skin with her fingertips and palms as he did her own, but as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, she couldn't help but scrape her nails lightly down his shoulder-blades. A heavy breath escaped him, and she felt the tension mount in the muscles of his back, the line of his body against her. The rattling breath thrilled her, and it prompted her to scrape her nails back up his spine.

As she drew her hands up to his shoulders, he followed the motion and pressed closer while simultaneously grasping her tightly with a hand on her waist and an arm around braced behind her shoulders. Thus secured, he flipped their positions gracefully and lowered her back to the bed. The jawbone swung forward and landed on her chest—then dragged down to her stomach as he pulled away.

She blinked up at him, framed against the moonlight that poured in from the balcony, and he looked down at her. “Ane ir’ina’lan’ehn,” he murmured, running a long finger down the length of her exposed thigh down to her knee. His eyes flashed up to her face as she quirked her knee a little wider, both to escape the ticklish sensation and to invite him back, closer.

She swallowed thickly at the look he gave her and was suddenly very shy, which she knew was ridiculous—she was a grown, experienced woman who had defeated would-be gods and caused the Dread Wolf to doubt his ways—and he had made it clear that he found her body pleasing—but the slow, smoldering pace and the restraint she felt he was showing made her feel foolish for being as eager as she was.

It seemed that he sensed her uncertainty. He slipped his fingers beneath the cords of his necklace and hung it on the bedpost near him. Then he gestured with his chin that she should move back; she pulled herself further into the bed, and he followed her closely. His lips found hers first, and then he slipped his hands beneath her to drag her hips up into his to make his intentions clear.

She arched into him, drew her knees up on either side of him to pursue the pressure. He gave it to her, grinding her back down into the bed with his hips—but once there, he caught her hands in his own and raised them to either side of her head and slowed his movements to what would be a torturous rhythm.

He dragged his lips across her cheek, then to her ear.

“Patience, you quick child,” he murmured. “Isalan dera na aron tuelan.”

Ixchel’s breath burned in her chest where it had caught upon hearing the heated promise in his voice. When his hands slipped out of hers, she moved her own to his bare shoulders—but he took even that from her, because he had pushed up her shirt and drew back to admire the skin he revealed. Kneeling between her legs, he admired her abdomen with appreciative hands, then chased his touch with his lips. She hummed as his lips and tongue left burning flesh in their wake, across her ribs, below her—

His mouth quirked mischeviously against her skin as she pressed her body closer in anticipation. She hooked an ankle behind his knee and stretched the other out as she raised her hips into his, and then he pulled her shirt off the rest of the way and dove down to attend to her breasts at last. The tip of his tongue traced a hardened nipple, then swept flat across it, hot and wet before he took it into his mouth. Her hands were free to explore his neck and shoulders again, trace the shell of his ear, feel the muscles in his jaw move, and he hummed against her skin to make his appreciation known.

Solas’s bare torso seared her where they touched; his skin was deliciously smooth against the many scars and burns that roughened her own.

She cupped the back of his head as he sucked at her breast, rolling the peak gently between his teeth as his fingers mimicked the motion on the other. Her sighs were deeper now, as though by releasing her breath in such a way she might release some of the mounting tension inside her. As he drew back, pulling her breast with his lips, something more like a moan escaped her. She looked down at him and caught his eye sparkling with mischief. He released her breast and turned to the other, still holding her gaze—until his fingers caught the wet, teased nipple between them and twisted and she lost herself to a full-body shudder. He pulled at it more demandingly with his lips, and she was like molding clay in his hands, willing, eager, reactive.

By the time he was done with her breasts, her nails were digging in to his shoulders and her knees were squeezed tight around his hips, desperation mounting.

Solas slid up her body to lathe at her neck, one arm coming beneath her to brace her shoulders and tangle in her hair while the other danced down the length of her to skitter across her hip bone. He sucked at the nearly ticklish juncture between her neck and shoulder, and then added the slightest hint of teeth just as his fingers slipped lower, between her legs.

Ixchel’s whole body came alive when his fingers dipped between her folds; he wasted no time and immediately pressed one finger deep into her heat, finding her ready enough. It was like electricity in her blood, tightening every muscle from head to toe, and she dragged his head closer to her neck on instinct even as she raised her hips to draw his finger deeper. He curled it inside her once, twice, and then he raised his lips to hers and swallowed her gasp as he inserted a second.

It embarrassed her to moan, but as he rocked his hand into her and she heard the sound of her wetness, she couldn’t help the sound. That clearly pleased him, and he pressed his thumb beneath the hood of her clit. He worked her well, swallowed every sound he could coax from her, teased her, drew her to edges and back until small shudders wracked her body. At that point, he drew back a little to watch her reactions to his ministrations.

She was hardly conscious of it. Her heart was in her throat; it had been pushed out of her ribs by a pressure building inside her, a hot coil that burned to her fingertips. She bit back a much louder groan of desperation as he denied her release again.

He slipped his fingers away, and her eyelashes fluttered as she tried to refocus on him only to see him licking the taste of her off of his hand while he unlaced his breeches with the other. She curled toes in anticipation of hte first sight of him, and her eyes devoured every new inch of skin he revealed. She drew life from the way the moonlight hit his skin, made his long, lean arms glow like the petals of a Divine Lotus. His lips twitched—but still she had not been able to coax a true smile out of him.

Her fingers itched to touch him, already imagined the silken texture of his cock, the heat of it at her fingertips. As though reading her mind, he reached for her, took her hand, and brought it slowly to the loosened hem of his pants.

She pushed herself upright and hooked her fingers in his breeches. She could feel the hard length of him straining for release. With her eyes still on his face, she freed him and took him into her hand.

Curse him, he barely even blinked.

Ixchel wondered how something as gentle and unhurried as this had been had become a contest, but as she began stroking him she resolved to give him as good as she had received. As she pleasured him, her palm that held the Anchor explored the glorious expanse of his back, the ridges of his ribs, and the long lines of his hip bones. His cock was like satin, and Ixchel was delighted when, with a gentle pull on his shaft and a swipe of her thumb across the head, she coaxed a low groan out of him. He breathed deeply, his grey eyes half-lidded but glimmering with desire.

She closed her eyes as she took him into her mouth, focused on cataloging his reactions to every new variable she introduced—her tongue beneath the ridge, or gentle pressure in her mouth as she sucked, or a long lick along his length. His hands were achingly gentle as he pushed her hair behind her ears and gathered it away from her face, but when she took him deeper into her mouth his grip tightened tellingly.

Wicked pride filled her when she recognized how much he seemed to be focused on staying still, on schooling his breathing, to withstand her edging. When his back was beginning to bow, he tugged on her hair and pulled her away. She released him from her lips with a wet sound and smirked, for he had closed his eyes as though praying for strength.

With a hand at the base of her throat, he pushed her back into the bed. She wiped her mouth and drank in the twisting muscles of his back as he slipped away to remove his breeches entirely. He bent to pick up their clothes from the floor and her mouth went dry, for it afforded her an awe-inspiring view of the flat planes of his ass and the long, lean strength in his legs.

It would have amused her to no end that he had taken the time to put their clothes neatly atop her dresser, but she was too impatient for such things. She slipped a hand between her legs to rub herself in anticipation of his return, and she was emboldened when he turned and took in the scene.

The loping steps he took to return to her side were the slow, loping steps he had taken as he circled her in Suledin Keep. The same predatory focus had entered his eyes, locked as they were on her own. Her heart stuttered as she recalled the wicked smile he had given her then, and the ghost of it appeared on his face now as he drew closer. It widened to a sharp smirk upon climbing into bed, and he took her wrist in his hand and drew it up to his lips to lick the taste of her away. She closed her eyes and focused on the sensation of his tongue between her fingers.

“Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin,” he said huskily, and the loudness of his voice, the unabashed promise in it, thrilled her more than almost anything else. He pressed a kiss to the Anchor, then to her wrist, and released her hand. She let it fall to her chest and left it there, eyes still closed as he pulled one of her knees up and opened her legs to settle himself between them.

Her first climax came quickly; he nipped at the taught juncture between her thigh and the needy heat of her, made all her muscles jump. Then his breath was on her slick and then his tongue, and as he dipped deeper into her, the tension in her pulled tight. Ixchel stretched herself, at once trying to escape the overwhelming sensations and simultaneously trying to enjoy his tongue against her. His fingers dug into the taught skin at her hips to trap her against him, and try as she might to curl her toes, she could not fend off the rising pleasure he brought her. He drank deep of her, probing and teasing at her core as she rode out the first rolling waves of her release.

Just when she might have regained some faculty, he raised himself a little and traced the tip of his tongue around her clit. Her fingers dug into her own breast, and she bit into the back of her other hand to stem what she knew would be a mewling cry. He flicked the sensitive pearl with his tongue at a steady pace, building the tension in her again with heavy sweeps across it whenever it seemed she might crest at last.

She thought she heard him murmur against her skin, and she certainly felt it; she shuddered to her toes. With his mouth alone, he pulled a second orgasm from her that rocked her more than the first, and he added his fingers before she was even done—an answer to a plea for more that she hadn’t even voiced. He gave her two fingers immediately, pumping into her with the same steady pace he set with his tongue, and the second melted into a third—a white-hot thrill that reached the deepest parts of her, something that excited even her spirit itself.

“Hnngh, Solas—”

She was nearly sobbing into her arm, and her chest was heaving with the effort to restrain herself when at last he pressed a kiss to her thigh and rose up along her body again. He nosed her face into position to kiss her again, and she groaned loudly as his tongue pressed the taste of her into her mouth.

Ixchel tightened her grip on his arms and levered herself up and around until he was on his back in the bed, straddled by her. They both cried out as she ground herself along his length, teasing as much as it sated, but then he caught the end of her hair in a tight grip and tipped her head back.

“Not yet, Ixchel.”

“No,” she said roughly. “Not yet.” She pressed herself against him and moaned again despite herself. She kissed Solas ardently, with her whole heart, trying to communicate the depth of her desire, the years of longing he could never know, that were about to be fulfilled.

Ixchel released his lips and nipped at his neck, the space behind his ear where she could reach it. His hands had a life of their own; one had slipped between them again to tease her clit, while the other scraped up her back. When she sucked at the sensitive spot she had found, his cock strained between them and his moan was unrestrained.

“May I mark you, ‘ma fen?” she whispered.

“Ma ghilan,” he said immediately. His nails dug into her back. “You bite… I bite.”

“Good.”

She was proud of the whole-body reaction he had to her ferocity, even prouder of his ragged breaths in her ear. With her teeth and her tongue and the slide of her heat against his length, she hoped that she unraveled him as well as he had done her. Ixchel supposed it was fair enough to claim a victory when he could take no more, and he pulled her away by her hair.

He chased her upright, latched on to a breast with vicious intent, and she sank dangerously close to him in his lap. He exposed her throat with another drag of her hair, and he claimed the skin there with a searing kiss that would certainly leave a mark, all teeth and friction and a hint of a snarl.

Solas pushed her back again, but before she had adjusted to being on her back, he had followed her, entered her with one slick motion. He had prepared her well, but the suddenness of their joining shocked her and she could not contain her short wail as he hit the depths of her. Her thighs trembled when his hips met them, when he was sheathed fully in her, and they paused there.

His forehead dipped to hers, and he left lingering kisses across the vallaslin that gleamed under a sheen of sweat. Their hands soothed and welcomed each other, and he murmured Elvhen words she couldn’t catch in her distracted state but words that nonetheless dripped blood and honey and praise.

Ixchel at last wound one leg around his hip, ankle hooked beneath the curve of his ass to nudge him deeper. Thus began their tryst in earnest.

Solas was true to his word. He was relentless in his pace, and his thrusts drove him deep within her—almost painfully so. Ixchel met him with equal measure for as long as she could, but when he dipped one hand between them to pleasure her while he fucked her, she ceded the match to him. She clung to him, mewling with every stroke, until at last she buried her face in his shoulder and fully gave herself over to white hot ecstasy. He slowed, arms coming to cage her tightly in adoring support as she rode out her release. But before it had fully left her, he tightened his grip on her hips and began again.

She praised him with broken words, called him home into her, and he at last gave her the brilliant smile she had been seeking as a prize.

Ixchel came again, and again, in his arms, but every time he seemed close he would slow and regain some composure. She was laughing in one such lull, and she brushed her fingers across his damp cheek adoringly.

“Are you showing off your generosity, or am I denying you what you desire?” she asked.

He nuzzled her nose with his own. “Perhaps I am denying myself. Very well.”

Solas pulled back, and she groaned at the sensation of him leaving her, of how empty she felt without him. With his hands on her hips he guided her onto her stomach. Her heart lurched as he tugged her to the edge of the bed and let her legs fall to the floor to brace herself as much as she could. The bed was high, and she had to stretch to her toes to do so, which was made all the more difficult as he bent over her back and lavished her heated skin with kisses, clearly relishing the sweat that clung to her now.

Ixchel was glad that he was not going to take her on her knees. She might have had to kill him on principle, and she wasn’t certain she had enough control of her muscles to accomplish that at the moment. He slipped his hand between her folds again to catch the slick, mingled fluids. Then he had guided himself back and sheathed himself easily inside of her. His wet mouth pressed kisses all along her shoulders and breathed endearments against her skin: mar rodhe ir’on…jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din ma tel’aman melin…juveran na su tarasyl…

Ixchel reached behind her to cradle his head, and she arched back as best she could to meet his lips.

Solas’s hips rocked into hers, and then he took up his savage pace again. This time, every thrust had her shrieking for him as he hit something so deep within her it was painful, but oh so sweet.

His teeth dug into her shoulder and she realized almost gratefully that he must be close. She surged up to meet him, panting, hissing as his grip on her hair and her hip tightened.

She had lost track of how many times she came, but she came again with him, pleading, praising.

Solas tightened his grip in her hair to bring her upright in the moment of their release, and her inner walls fluttered in response. After a moment or two, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. He braced her against his body with a wide hand splayed across her chest, fingers at the base of her throat; she was glad to feel so secure, because the aftershocks still rocked her, and her limbs felt utterly boneless.

The ardor that had overcome him was replaced once again with the gentle admiration that had prompted their coupling; Solas eased his grip on her and carefully brushed her hair away from her glistening temple, where he tucked it behind her ear. Yet even that still electrified her, impossibly still aroused. The hand on her chest swept upward to curl loosely around her throat, and those long, elegant fingers ever-so-slightly nudged her chin to the side so he could kiss her cheek and then her lips tenderly.

"You are so perfect," he breathed.

Ixchel opened her eyes to find his elven pupils blown wide in the dark. His eyes were creased in the corners as some tight emotion overcame him. She raised her arms to loop them behind his neck, and she stretched to kiss him just as gently. He responded by tightening his grip on her throat and trailing his other hand down her thigh again.

She could already feel his cock stirring in her. Mercifully, however, he pulled away and released her to go in search of a cloth. It was all she could do to collapse forward into the bed rather than melt into a puddle on the floor, and she rolled on to her side to blink slowly, sleepily in his absence.

Solas returned and wiped the traces of mingled fluids that had dripped down her legs. There was nowhere neat to place the rag, and now she found it immensely funny that the normally impeccable mage would toss the filthy thing so carelessly over his shoulder into an unknown corner of the room. But she had no energy to laugh.

Solas climbed into bed with her but left her her space; the only place they touched was his hand beneath her hair. It lay against her neck, thumb behind her ear, seemingly just to remind himself that she was solid, still there. Or perhaps it was meant to reassure her about his continued presence at her side.

Regardless, Ixchel was happy to float in the afterglow of their love-making. Enveloped in the smell of him, the remnants of their joining, and the familiar sounds of her home, she tried to push out Despair and Regret and Terror and focus on love alone. Love before loss, love before betrayal, love before resentment. Underneath all of their history, before she had tried to love a god, she was Ixchel, and he was Solas, and she loved him.

Her breaths deepened until that precipitous moment where she might have fallen into the Fade. But instead, her mind...missed. The fall sent her consciousness sprawling out around her, awash against the pool of his mana beside her and the residual enchantments in the atmosphere and foundation of Skyhold.

In that unknowably long moment of heightened awareness, Ixchel felt the press of the Veil around her and heard the whispers of Spirits just beyond it. Something called to her, not by a name but rather with a pull on that feeling that ran through the core of her soul. But most of all, Ixchel felt Solas.

Nothing about it was like first time this had happened, in the Fade; there, Solas's immense power had been all-encompassing, shaping the dream purely by existing within it. Here, she understood what Cole migh have seen in her, and in Solas. For Solas was sharp and clear, as though he were the realest thing in reality.

The moment ended abruptly and her limbs jumped as she regained control over them. She gasped

Solas turned his head to look at her with concern. "A dream?" he wondered aloud.

Ixchel shook her head and shivered. She was suddenly terribly cold, and empty, and wanted to be contained. She crawled closed and curled herself against him, arms seeking, and it seemed he understood. He tangled their legs together and half-covered her body with his own. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"My mind..." she whispered haltingly. "The mirror-smooth moment..."

A startled breath cooled her forehead.

"I could feel the Veil like a screen, something behind it calling to me...and you. You're so real," she said, looking up at him in helpless awe.

Solas returned the look. "That is how I feel about you, arasha. You are a beacon, burning."

She swallowed. "What do I do with that feeling?" she wondered.

He hummed quietly and nuzzled closer to her cheek. "Go to sleep," he said simply. At her frown, he gave a soft, laughing exhale in her ear. "There, I will try to show you."

She turned her face to enjoy the sensation of his cheek against her own, and she breathed deeply of him—incense and power and sex and Solas, Solas, Solas.

"I love you, so impossibly much," she whispered in a small voice.

His grip on her tightened but he did not look up. "Impossibly so," he echoed into her hair.

-:-:-:-:-

And then she was chasing hanal’ghilan across the Exalted Plains, but she crossed a bridge and she was there. The Elvhen mountain ruins on the worst day of her life. Hanal’ghilan danced nimbly between the bodies of so many Qunari, but Ixchel was stumbling, tripping—no, they were grasping at her, dragging her down—black waters—red beneath the roiling surface—

“Ixchel.”

Arms caught her. The bodies were gone. But her arm was black and withering, and he would soon take it—

Ixchel gasped for air and forced herself closer to him in defiance of her fear. She forced herself to embrace him, to remember that for now, she had two arms that were not dead, and her love had not left her, and he was trying to show her something. He did not wear the golden armor of the ancient ones who came before.

Ixchel released an incredulous breath against his chest. "What was that?"

"I don't think you were conscious," he said.

And that was probably true, because the Fade all around them now was entirely shaped by him. She peeked around to find that they were in the fountain section of the endless maze, standing in the water. Solas lifted her by the waist to sit her on a stepping stone, and he slipped his arms around her, standing between her legs. He was smiling a little, as amused and pleased as any cat who got in the cream.

"Such lack of control is unlike you. Perhaps I had tapped your deepest reserves of strength," he offered innocently.

"And you weren't even done," Ixchel said with a shudder that was only half-exaggerated. His dark chuckle made her toes curl. She fisted her hands in his cloak, partly to control the distance between them.

"As I have said, 'ma’av’in," he purred, "I feel that I have quite a bit to make up for."

She smirked. "What, you didn't do anything risque in your thousands of years of dreaming, Fen'Harel?"

His grip on her tightened, fingers digging in to her ass to drag their hips together again. "I have heard that Fade sex ‘doesn't count,'" he said with a wicked smile.

She covered that smile with her hand, and he gentled, kissing her palm.

"By the way," he said beneath her fingers, "I am coming with you."

Ixchel stared at him, not understanding for a moment. Then, she remembered that she was meant to take her party through the eluvian…tomorrow, really. “But Morrigan—”

Solas’s brow tightened. "You will not be taking Cole. And Amarok..." He trailed off and shrugged. "He does not have such a wealth of places to hide you from your enemies."

She pushed him a little, smirking. "I knew it, Grim."

Solas laughed freely. The sound filled her with radiant joy, and even though she had just pushed him she wrapped her arms around his back and held him close. He returned her hug tightly. "It is much easier to find you and protect you when your mind is close," he said more seriously. “I would not leave you vulnerable to nightmares—either the servant of Corypheus, or ones of your own making.”

They held each other for a while, surrounded by the sounds of water and bird song and the wind in leaves. The air was crisp and warm, and he smelled like he always did, but somehow more… There were always smells in Solas’s dreams, she realized. It probably made sense, if he had been a wolf for so long, but she wondered how significant scent was to him in the waking world. She couldn’t think of how to ask without being weird.

At last she looked up at his chin. “So what do I do with…?”

“Ah, yes.” He chuckled and pulled away enough to find the hand that held the Anchor. “Manipulating the Veil will come most easily to you. While it is a valid style, I fear that it will be most difficult for you to use your innate power and avoid aggravating…this.”

She took the corner of her lip between her teeth, a little disappointed. She had seen his style at work, as a potent Rift Mage battling the most powerful adversaries in Thedas, and she did so admire it. “My life would probably get a lot harder if I were to say blood magic, huh?”

Solas rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I am certain Cassandra would not approve.”

“Or Varric, or Dorian, or Bull, or Vivienne, or—”

Solas covered her mouth with his other hand, grinning. “I get your point.”

“You know far more than I do about this choice,” Ixchel said behind his fingers. “I don’t even know all the specializations out there. Do you?”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not. You have seen Vivienne in battle as a Knight Enchanter, and you seem to know that those traditions come from ena’sal’in’amelan. Some elves called that technique Ghilan’him Banal’vhen, out of contempt for the physicality of the school, but only fools would doubt its honor and utility,” Solas said, and Ixchel looked over his shoulder to see two spirits take on the shape of elves in an exhibition battle. One wielded a scimitar that was made of magic, while the other was armed with only their will.

“It might be difficult for a two-handed warrior to adjust,” he admitted.

Ixchel clutched his hand tighter with the Anchor. “I will not always be two-handed, Solas,” she said carefully. “Perhaps I should practice now.”

The muscles of his jaw worked as he chewed on her words, but he did not deny her. “Do you have the luxury of that time?” he asked.

“Not now,” she admitted. “But if not now, when? I’ll hear your other recommendations, of course, ‘ma’lath.”

“Magic at its heart is questioning the reality one knows around them and calling the dream of what should be possible out of the Fade. Some of this is elemental, like fire, ice, and lightning. It might call upon denizens of the Fade themselves—to aide in healing or to harass enemies.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “But even this is just the beginning. With sufficient desire and imagination, one can make reality itself more mutable in the same way that Templars reinforce its immutability.”

His eyes flashed, and she felt the Fade ripple around them as a wave of magic washed over her. In its wake, she felt her chest tighten with a surge of adrenaline; the air was sharp and crisp, and her vision felt clearer than usual—and while her heart raced, her mind had singular focus.

“Auras of courage,” and here Solas nodded at her, “faith, fear… A sphere of influence as potent as if you were in a pocket of the Fade itself.” He tilted his head at a wall of the maze, which rippled like water, but not like leaves. “Illusion magic, wards, charms, are about leaving your mark on the world even once you’ve left. Then, of course, there is mastery of form. Healing. Others. It is possible to learn some of each, but there is a personality to each of us that shapes our dreams, and thus the Fade, in certain patterns over others.”

“What do you think?”

He chuckled and ran a hand across her shoulder and squeezed her bicep. “The physicality of the Arcane Warrior might seem natural to you, but I would not be the best teacher. Your indomitable focus and force of will…” His silver eyes flickered back up to hers with a flash of mischief that made her wrinkle her nose at him. “Aura magic will be the next most intuitive, and useful in the long run…and the easiest to translate into the waking world.” He leaned closer to gaze deep into her eyes as though searching for some sign of magical prowess. “What is it that our Commander likes to say about shields? Perhaps we can start there.”

“A barrier?”

“No, a shield,” he corrected. “Barriers repel spells. A shield is a shield, ‘ma’lath.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke after Solas. Sometime during their exploration and exercises in the maze, her exhaustion had caught up to her, and a good stretch of her night was a blank and blurry stretch of unconscious slumber. When she did finally wake, she found herself tucked close to him beneath the covers in her bed. They were deliciously warm together, and the smell of sex had mostly drifted out from the open balcony door in the night, it seemed. But as she stirred and raised her face a little she could still smell it on his skin amid the prophet’s laura and vandal aria that was the mix of his and her scents.

He brushed her hair away from her lashes. “On dhea, arasha,” he said softly. “Rest well?”

She nuzzled into his palm and sighed. She was scandalously sore, but the thrill of waking to a lover—and to this particular lover—gave her energy despite the aches in her legs and back and elsewhere. She knew that she should bathe and don her armor and pack up for the Western Approach, as should he, but…

“How long have you been up?” she mumbled.

“I woke to make sure you truly slept and had not been stolen out from beneath me,” he said.

She looked up at him through sleep-clouded eyes. “How long?”

He shrugged and dipped closer to catch her lips in his instead of replying. His leg slipped between hers, and his upper body pressed close to cover her own while he kissed her and stroked her cheek. It was tender, this kiss, but solid, and wakeful. Much more wakeful than she was, with her limbs still weighted with sleep. Solas kissed her as though to revel in the fact that he could kiss her as he liked, whenever he liked. It was a statement; here was no insistent passion, no demure question, no coy coaxing to it—just a deep, constant sense of contentment that, indeed, there was no one and nothing else that could deny him this now.

Ixchel slipped her arms around his waist, one hand to sweep up his back, the other to follow the flat plane of his hip and leg around to his ass. As his manhood stirred a little between them, he chuckled.

“I recall we might have a busy day, Inquisitor.”

“The Wardens won’t return to Adamant for half a week still,” she murmured against his lips, and his fingers had already begun to wander across her hip and down her leg. When they reached her knee, his palm joined his fingertips to press and squeeze appreciatively at the muscle and begin an exploration upward again. His thumb pressed in to the taught cord on the inside of her thigh as he brought his hand closer to her core once again.

In return, Ixchel’s wandering hand whispered across his lean abdomen, fingertips tracing letters into his skin with a feather-light touch before settling at the base of his cock again.

Solas hummed a pleased breath across her face, but he only slowed his progress toward the juncure of her thighs. He returned to kissing her, his tongue sweeping forward to ask entrance to her lips. She sighed again contentedly as he settled more closely into her, thoroughly preoccupied with deepening the kiss. His breaths were slow, and his lips unhurried, and that was the pace she followed with her hand between them. His manhood woke in her hand quickly, but his self-control was as strong as ever; his hips hardly stirred, except for when he finally nudged her legs wider with his knee so that he could slip his middle finger up through her folds.

A low sound of anticipatory pleasure was shared between them when he found her hot and ready. With long, slow strokes of just the one finger, he spread her slick around her clit and teased it with small circles that never quite passed across the pearl. When she was at last forced to release a short whimper at the torturous shivers he was coaxing from her, he had started to lose his own veneer of control. His hips pumped slowly into her hand with every stroke, and his lashes fluttered when her thumb passed below the head of his cock at the apex.

Solas groaned into her mouth as he rolled her on top of him and swept his hands up to gather her breasts and knead them. “Good morning,” he murmured, then exhaled abruptly as she rubbed her dripping heat along his shaft. The tip of his cock pressed against her entrance as she settled in place, she moaned, too.

Ixchel reached between them to position him properly, and she blushed furiously as she caught him watching her with that preternatural focus that unnerved and aroused her so much. As he held her gaze so intently, he pushed and up into her ever-so-slightly. Her mouth opened in a silent oh at the stretch, and she dropped her hands to brace herself against his chest and beside his head. Her hair fell forward to ghost across his skin, a development he took advantage of by wrapping it up in his fist and tugging her head back with a gentle but insistent grip. Her inner muscles clenched in response to the tension against her scalp.

“Am I mistaken?” he asked in a low, husky voice, but the question in it was real.

“I like it,” she assured him. He rewarded her with what felt like only another inch of his length. As she tried to press down to meet him, he tugged again on her hair. Her fluttering eyes flashed open and he gave her the faintest smirk behind his placid mask. She swallowed hard. “Wh-what can I do for you, ‘ma’lath?”

“Hmm?” He pushed in a little more and her muscles clenched, as though to pull him further. “You can come for me until the only word you know is my name,” he purred. “You can show me the force of will that makes an Empress quake…”

She had to close her eyes again. “Mhm. Indomitable. Hm.”

He chuckled. It seemed to her that she was well on her way to fulfilling the first criteria. She decided that she was too warm, and her mind too gauzy, to examine what the other option fully entailed. With a last, slow movement of his hips, he sank the rest of the way in to her heat, and his grip on her hair eased to let her settle back on to him. He brushed a thumb across her nipple once more, then reached around to take a handful of her rear and pull her even closer.

“There will be plenty of time for us to explore that,” he promised her in a low voice. He withdrew, then entered her again with a gentle roll of his hips. Her toes curled, already anticipating a long, arduous climb to her finish. “I am happy for now to know I can pleasure you, Ixchel.”

The arm that propped her up nearly gave way, and she had to lean closer and kiss him—couldn’t help it. There was nothing else to do except kiss him in reply. Lucky and lucky and relieved, and more than a measure satisfied, she felt, to hear the earnestness in his voice beneath the honey and wine.

“Ar lath ma, Solas,” she said.

They made gentle love until she nearly wept just from the desperate need for motion, and then he shifted his grip on her and gave her what she desired. She finished on a high, his name bitten out into his shoulder with a gasp.

She lay against his chest for a while longer, and she thought that maybe the both of them nearly fell asleep again. She caught herself slipping away and groaned, for she knew she did need to return to her responsibilities if their love was going to last.

Ixchel kissed him once again, then did the deed: she threw back the covers and stepped out onto the cold carpet. He followed her slowly and gathered up his clothes. She cast him a curious look as she moved in the direction of her bath, but he pressed a kiss to her forehead and didn’t follow. “Perhaps I recall I cannot have my hands on you every hour of the day and night,” he mused.

She gave him a laughing smile. “I will fetch you,” she promised, and with one last, lingering look to appreciate his naked form, she left him to dress while she went to bathe.


	76. Chapter 97 Excerpts

They traveled quite a distance before night fell, and, reinvigorated by the drop in temperature, pressed on quite late. Ixchel fell into her tent with Solas and, shockingly, was reluctant to remove her armor in the sudden cold. She complained bitterly in her mind about the smell and the stiffness and the pointy bits and decided that she really didn’t like this place.

Solas helped her remove her plate armor, but he had remained in his coat and leggings, so she was a little less self-conscious. As they settled in to bed, she groaned a little. She didn’t need to articulate her displeasure for him to understand.

“War is always filthy,” he agreed under his breath. “Get your rest, arasha. Let us be done soon.”

-:-:-:-:-

For as much time as Ixchel had spent wandering the Fade with Solas, she hadn’t realized just how different it was to wander through the memories of a place rather than the memories of a person. It reminded her of the maze in many was, but also Vir Dirthara in others: the edges of her perception were filled in as they wandered, but where it ended, there was a formless fog and a directionless empty space. Solas led the way as though following a map, and it took her a while to realize that he was following a tiny wisp. When she focused her attention on it, however, it seemed to become more solid, perceived, and gained form.

They were following an ancient Magister, it seemeed.

The remembered-Magister led them to a massive fortress built to take up the whole of a canyon, barrying passage. A blood magic seal on the door was bypassed with some ritual and then the Magister disappeared inside.

“It is reminiscent of a prison,” Solas said thoughtfully. “The canyon acts as a choke point for escape attempts.”

“Not the laboratory, then?”

He glanced at her. “Listen closely—you will hear the remembered pain. I would not have us linger here long in the Fade… The power of the Nightmare is stronger here.”

Ixchel listened as he had directed, and she heard the telltale shrieks of Terror and Despair within.

Solas took her hand and dragged them back into a more peaceful memory.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel heard the dragon in the distance over the course of the next day, though she was experienced enough to know that it was hunting to the south. It was positively torturous for Bull to hear its siren call and not be able to pursue it, Ixchel knew, and in some part of her she felt the same way. But the knowledge of what lay ahead her was enough motivation to keep going—despite the heat, despite the sun, despite the Blighted wastes to the west.

She took her party scouting the route ahead and came upon an overlook of the western wastes. They were silent as they stared upon it: the blackened earth where no life could find purchase, the oily sheen on the water in the river valley below, and the heat melting the poisoned air above it all.

“You know how Corypheus is all red these days?” Varric said. “I was thinking about it, with Hawke. Why didn’t we see the connnection with the red lyrium before?” He pointed out at the wasteland. “It’s because he wasn’t red. He’d just woken up and he was all black, like darkspawn”

“I don’t know what that means,” Ixchel admitted, staring out at the Blighted land and thinking of red lyrium, thinking of the Black City, the Blight and the Fade. “But you know I don’t blame you for any of this, right?”

Varric just looked at her sadly.

“You really shouldn’t, Varric.” She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “If anything, you and Bartrand helped the world realize what kind of danger we’re in. The Wardens aren’t looking in to it, or Corypheus. But Morrigan and the Hero of Ferelden met the Architect. If any of these Magisters are out there…we’d be in this situation eventually.”

-:-:-:-:-

That night in the Fade, Ixchel and Solas were on the vast silent plain, where he had once removed his vallaslin. But the plains around them were the black, hard ground of the Blighted wastes to the west.

Ixchel was far away from Solas, on a patch of ground that held no taint. He was but a silhouette in the dark, but she could see that he was dressed as the general, the leader—Fen’Harel in his golden armor, wolf pelt across his shoulder, coat fluttering in the cold, poisonous wind.

As Ixchel walked toward him, the ground beneath her feet returned to a non-Blighted state, and the more it seemed that his silhouette morphed back to what she was more comfortable with. He did not look at her, but continued to stare out at the wasteland.

“Is it worse than it would have been?” he asked. His words were whipped away on the wind, faint, as though he were still at a distance even as he stood beside her. 

Ixchel hugged herself in the cold. “Sometimes there are only terrible choices left,” she said softly. “And…unless you tell me otherwise… The Archdemons did this. The Magisters did this.”

“I do not know if they are consequences, or inevitabilities,” he replied. Then, he looked back at her in the moonlight. “The Blight is not something you smugly outsmart, I have learned.”

“Is that what you want to do?” she asked. “Cure the Blight?”

Solas reached for her, but his hand moved slowly, and it stopped short of her cheek. His fingers shook. “That would be impossibly ambitious, arasha.”

She took his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. “But that does not make it any less worthy, Solas.”


	77. Chapter 98 Excerpt

Cassandra picked her way carefully through the chaos, her eyes never leaving the Despair demon right below the rift. “I do not understand how this is possible,” she said slowly.

“Which part? Time magic in general, or that we can walk through here unaffected?” Dorian asked.

“All of it,” Cassandra admitted.

Ixchel had remained in the doorway, drinking in the sight as though it were a diorama. But when she took her first step into the room—she felt a ripple that tore at something deep within her, as though a dragon had landed in front of her, or a Qunari shock trooper had smacked a hammer into the ground: the shock wave of it rocked her and sent her staggering.

Solas was immediately beside her. “What is it?”

She clutched at her chest; her heart raced, but it was more than her _heart_ that ached, more than her insides, even. She felt as though something in her had _splintered_ along fault lines like she had never felt before. Ixchel opened her mouth to speak, but in her ears her voice echoed as though she were in an underwater cavern. “I can’t explain it,” she said.

From the way her companions’ eyes all widened as she spoke indicated that perhaps they heard the same strange echo.

Ixchel took another step into the room—and this time, it didn’t hurt, but it was still jarring. She heard her footsteps echo as though more than one of herself were walking at once. It echoed _inside her head,_ and for some reason with every step, she had to fight herself to put another foot forward; it felt almost as though she might be stepping off a precipice, or that the floor might drop out from beneath her before she set her foot down.

“I’m fine,” she said through her teeth. “Go gather some info.”

Bull stayed beside her, axe at the ready, eying the Despair demons while the others split up briefly to examine the hall, but they found very little except for one of the ancient Elvhen Veil artifacts. Solas waited to activate it until they had all gathered, in case it caused time to flow again—but it did not.

“Time is well and truly stifled here,” Dorian observed.

“Do we _want_ that to change?” Bull grumbled.

Dorian glanced at Solas, whose face remained carefully schooled. “This kind of magic…should remain purely theoretical, for the catastrophic tears it _necessarily_ creates in the Veil,” Dorian said. “Though it seems this might have been opened centuries ago, who knows what repercussions it has on the strength of the Veil in the area?”

Bull groaned. “Ugh, that means we need to mess with it, huh.”

Ixchel waved the Anchor slowly through the air. “Yeah, ‘cause this doesn’t seem to want to take hold,” she said. “There’s got to be something else. Alexius needed his amulet for his time magic. Maybe there’s a nexus, a foci of some kind?”

“Very astute, _mula,”_ Dorian said.

Ixchel leaned on Solas’s arm as they walked into the next chamber. Empty cages hung from the ceiling in the wings of the room, over massive pits that Ixchel imagined might have once channeled blood into other chambers down below.

When they stepped out into the next courtyard, the first thing Ixchel realized was that there _was no wind._ Like in the entrance hall, there were demons everywhere, frozen, engaged in a massacre of ancient Tevinter mages and what appeared to be a handful of slaves. Ixchel’s skin crawled with the buzz of magic that she could not see, could not hear—and she suddenly understood what Cole had said about the song being _wrong_. This was a note played but never completed, waiting for the rest of the song to go on, but just—just wrong.

A man was frozen mid-air, being thrown from a building by a Terror demon. Shades of Sloth were paused mid-slug along the paths. But even though the demons and the humans had all been frozen, the building itself was ruined. It had not been spared the passage of time.

Her companions split up again, though Solas remained with her. She was silent, but she was trying to come up with words to describe how she felt. “It’s not just the Anchor,” was all she could tell him.

Solas gave her a pensive look. “I believe it is,” he disagreed. “I do not know if the time magic was the _goal_ of the Magisters, a consequence…or a fail-safe. The Veil was caught in the act of tearing, like a knife caught in a snag of fabric.” His brow was troubled. “The Anchor is meant to tear, or to seal, and the magic that _stopped_ the tear in the Veil here might be affecting anything that would have a similar power.”

“That makes sense,” she supposed.


	78. Chapter 99 Excerpts

Ixchel gathered with her companions beneath one of their sand shelters that afternoon as they waited for the cover of night. It was certainly the calm before the storm: Solas and Dorian were playing chess with a small road set Varric had found somewhere on the road with Hawke; Cassandra was sharpening her blade with the whetsone Thom had given her so long ago now; Bull and Varric were writing and chiming in to Solas and Dorian’s game with heckling comments and tips every now and then.

And Ixchel sat, ostensibly with Cassandra, ostensibly to work on her armor…but instead she found herself staring into the darkness as though her vision could pierce the sand dune and see through to Adamant itself.

“It appears I have won,” Solas said sympathetically. “Again.” He held up his hands as he leaned back from the board. “I am afraid, barring miraculous improvement, you will make poor sport for the Iron Bull.”’

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, I don’t expect it to be a _long_ game, just an interesting one.” He gave Bull a smirk. “Believe me, Solas, Bull and I have far more interesting ways to pass the time.”

If Ixchel had had her wits about her, she would have anticipated what came next. As it stood, she was thoroughly distracted until she heard her name.

“—could take a page or two out of the Inquisitor’s book, huh?” Bull was saying.

Ixchel looked over her shoulder to find him, Dorian, and Varric grinning at her. She didn’t really know the context of what was going on, except for the fact that Solas was trying very, very hard not to grin, and there was a blush spreading across his face that reached his ears.

She narrowed her eyes at them all. “Oh? The savage Qunari wants a lesson from the Dalish savage?” she asked. “Here’s what you tell him, Dorian: _isalan alas’nira aron fen’en.”_

She kept her face completely schooled as Solas choked on whatever breath he had been taking. Bull gave him a surprised but thoroughly entertained grin even though he didn’t know what she had said, but Dorian took a moment longer to roughly translate the Elvhen dialect.

Cassandra looked between her and Solas with confusion. “Is that a Dalish joke?” she asked.

“Seeker, a Dalish joke is like… ‘What’s a hunter’s favorite game?’”

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “Duck, duck, goose.”

Varric chuckled. “See?”

“Then what is it?” Cassandra asked again.

Dorian had, by then, come to his answer and got a devilish grin. “‘Fuck me like a dog,’ Seeker,” he said matter-of-factly.

Ixchel thought that Cassandra’s head might _pop_ for how quickly the blood rushed to her cheeks, and she gasped at Ixchel—and then jumped out of the way, because Bull had said, “Well, if you say so,” and practically picked Dorian up by the scruff of the neck and left.

Varric’s laughter rocked him so deeply, he nearly fell off his stool.

“It’s much prettier than that,” Ixchel said primly. “‘I lust to dance as wolves do.’”

“Oh, like that is _so different!”_ Cassandra said, rolling her eyes. “No one talks like that!”

“Unless they want to—” but Varric couldn’t finish, because he was still laughing.

Solas’s facade had cracked completely, and he was grinning to himself as he packed up the folding chess board. Ixchel smiled at him fondly, though he did not see her do so.

She touched her chest, where she had tucked the note about Clan Lavellan against her heart. She had to remind herself that not everything unplanned must be a tragedy.

-:-:-:-:-

Stroud helped pull her out of the shaft and immediately began whispering.

“Maker-good timing,” he murmured. “They’ve got the mages on rotation up on the battlements. The warriors are all corralled in the central courtyard, in their camp. The warriors definitely are getting antsy, but…” His face darkened. “Their goal is so lofty, I’m afraid they’d agree to anything.”

“And what _is_ that?” Dorian whispered back, having climbed out of the pipe on his own. His hair was hardy mussed. “I know they’ve all heard their Calling or what have you, but why would they _agree_ to binding demons into an army?”

“They think they’re all about to die,” Stroud said. “They’re afraid it portends a double Blight, with the last two Archdemons. So they want to fight through the Deep Roads and reach the dragons before they can get corrupted and wake.”

“What?” Solas hissed. “That’s madness! For all we know, killing the Old Gods could make things even worse!”

Ixchel gave him a sharp look.

“Those fools and duty,” he continued under his breath. “Responsibility is _not_ expertise. Action is not inherently superior to inaction…”

Now he had everyone staring at him. He looked away. “Forgive me. The entire idea is…unnerving!”

“Well, that much is true,” Dorian agreed. “Though I think for _wildly_ different reasons.”

Ixchel glowered at all of them. “They have been _tricked,_ remember?” she whispered furiously. “Shut up.” She looked back at Stroud. “And Calpernia?”

“The Venatori are all in the belly of the place,” he said. “Calpernia among them, I believe. A raven came this morning—the only bird I’ve seen out here ‘cept the vultures.” He glanced at the door to the tiny chamber they were in. “Blackwalll went to investigate. He should be back shortly.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “How were the people you came back with?” she asked. “Optimistic?”

Stroud clenched his jaw. “Only in the most cynical way possible. The talk of the Warden warriors being used as the blood sacrifices for the Warden mages has set our brothers and sisters against one another, though the conflict has not come to a head, yet. But with the Mage-Templar war fresh in their memories, even if we prevent this tragedy, there will be divisions for years to come!”

“Tch.” Solas crossed his arms.

Ixchel kept her eyes on Stroud. “We _will_ prevent this tragedy,” she said firmly. “One way or another. What will come next is likely to be up to you, Stroud.”

-:-:-:-:-

Calpernia raised her chin. “I will do what I can,” she said. “I do not see that I have much choice.”

Ixchel shrugged. “Keep your people safe,” she said, and then waited for Calpernia and her agent to leave.

Solas stepped between Stroud and Ixchel. “That is the woman who fed red lyrium to Cassandra’s Seekers,” he said gravely. “Former slave though she might be, she was willing to enslave _these_ Wardens to her master’s will and cause untold suffering in those who are not her own people.”

Ixchel nearly raised her eyebrows at that, considering who was speaking, but she scowled instead. “Forcing a confrontation will just make it harder for us to reach the Wardens, and they’re my priority,” she said. “With the Venatori’s leader toppled, there’s a power vacuum. The Magisters will kill each other to gain Corypheus’s favor, like she said.”

“I do not disagree with you necessarily, _lethallan_ ,” he said, and she tried not to bristle at the suddenly careful tone he had adopted. They were in a war, and not every conversation needed to be about love, did it? When had she gotten soft? “I am simply considering how Warden Stroud and Cassandra will interpret your decisions.”

Ixchel looked at Stroud.

He sighed angrily. “If the Wardens are free, then they can be persuaded,” he said. “If they are enslaved…then they must be destroyed. I know which one I would prefer.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that Wardens can justify _anything_ ,” Varric said. “Cassandra? Not so much.”

“Cassandra's a Seeker,” Ixchel said. “She can seek Calpernia after this if vengeance is what she wants. Our priority has to be Corypheus, and preventing _more_ suffering, not exacting punishments. Not ‘til this war is won.”

Her companions nodded at her, each more grave than the last. “Let’s send Rat, then,” she said. “I’ll wait here for Thom.”


	79. Chapter 100 Excerpts

“Call down the Archdemon!” one urged. “We’re calling all the mages to open a rift! If there is to be a battle, there should be enough blood to let the demon in! Cover us!”

“No! Don’t let them escape!” Ixchel ordered over her shoulder as she ran, as fast as she could. “They can’t be allowed to do this!”

But the Magisters had scattered the moment they heard her coming.

“They’re gathering back in the courtyard!” Solas shouted, suddenly appearing atop a railing above them. “They are trying to open a rift!”

“We know!” Ixchel shouted. “Hurry! Before the Archdemon—”

A loud succession of _booms_ echoed up from the tower above them. Ixchel looked glumly up at the sky, as did most of the battlefield, it seemed, if the sudden hush was any indication.

The shrill scream of the Archdemon echoed up across the plains.

Ixchel looked around at her companions. “Rift!”

She leaped over a railing and dropped down a level, right in front of an armored Venatori.

Her companions followed, with varying degrees of grace.

They plowed through as many warriors as they could and reached the central courtyard just as the first tear began form in the Veil.

“Disrupt it!” Ixchel screamed as she charged.

Someone shouted back in Tevene, but they were cut off by her blade, leaving a wet gurgle in their wake. Ixchel was a whirlwind in the midst of the spellbinders, trying to cut down as many as she could before the rift truly opened. Unfortunately, the spilled blood only seemed to empower the remaining mages.

Ixchel was thrown back as a Pride demon burst through the rift in an explosion of electricity and blood.

A Magister turned on her and raised a hand, and somehow triggered the magic in her arm to burn. She had not been prepared for the sudden agony, and she dropped to one knee before the Pride demon as the Anchor flared—

And then the scream of the Archdemon was right above them.

“FUUUUCK!” Ixchel roared.

She slammed the wild Anchor into the ground, and friends and foes alike were thrown away from the rift.

That left her alone with the Pride demon.

The magic of the Fade poured out from the Rift over her head like fog down a mountain, and with the awakened Anchor Ixchel pulled it around her in a protective shroud. Her vision swam with green light, and her limbs coursed with the burning power of its magic—and she charged at the Pride demon.

As she harried its legs from behind, never once letting its whips and charges catch her full-on, she saw her allies springing upon the prone Venatori mages to _coup de gras_ those they could before the spellbinders could even try to open the rift any more.

Solas was suddenly at her side, his arm circling her waist, and he dragged her away from the Pride demon before it could fall on her. There was a bolt in its eye.

“Close the rift!”

Ixchel rounded in his arms, her back pressed against his chest to brace herself as she sealed the tear in the Veil.

In the glimpse of the raw Fade behind it, she could see the million eyes of the Nightmare glaring at her—

And then it shut.

Solas then threw her down to the ground and put a barrier up over them as the red lyrium dragon took aim.

He pulled on the Anchor’s power without asking, and Ixchel cried out, because she could feel the Blighted breath of the dragon pressing down all around them and knew it was necessary but he was _tearing_ her arm apart nonetheless—

Her scream of pain mingled with the roar of the dragon in a shrill crescendo.

Solas rolled off of her the moment the dragon had completed its flyby and helped her to her feet. He was bleeding from a long cut on the side of his head, and the robes on his left side had been charred.

He held the Anchor in his hand and tried to siphon the excess magic out of it, but there was no time and they both knew it.

“I am so sorry,” he said bitterly.

"I know," she said, and she rounded on the courtyard. “We must draw the dragon out to the plain!” she called to her companions. “With me!”

Thus began their battle _out_ of Adamant. But her soldiers had infiltrated the fortress at last. She caught sight of Templars rushing past to intercept the Venatori mages, with cries of: _For the Inquisition!_ on their lips.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel glanced past him to where Solas stood. He stared up to the Breach, and the Black City framed against it.

“Close enough to touch,” he said softly. He gave a disbelieving breath, not quite a laugh. “I never thought I’d be here. Not like this.”

Ixchel looked up at the Black City with white-hot fury, but beneath it was a sense of dread she had not actually known the last time she was in the Nightmare’s Domain. For, now, she had an idea of what had turned the Golden City black. She had an idea of what festered within its walls. And she knew how dangerous it was for Solas to be so close to it. Part of her wanted to start running and find a way to destroy it. Corypheus be damned, maybe if she worked hard enough Solas would never have to think of it again.

She hugged herself tightly and tried to catch her breath, but her anger flared anew every other moment as her companions spoke.

"Solas, do you understand this place?" Cassandra asked quietly. "I have no experience with the Fade... Let alone anything as...esoteric as this."

Solas chuckled darkly. "I would never seek out a place in the Fade such as this. As the Inquisitor said and our new friend can confirm”—he gestured at Calpernia—”this is the realm of the Nightmare. To have shaped an entire ecosystem in this way...it must be nearly as old as Imshael, and as powerful."

Cassandra, for a moment, looked relieved.

"Imshael was in _our_ home, cut off from the wealth of his power, and he didn't really _want_ to fight us," Ixchel cautioned angrily. "This is _dire,_ don't misunderstand!”

Everyone’s eyes turned to her with concern. That only made her pulse quicken.

“Look. I _am_ going to get us all out of here alive,” she vowed passionately. “But that means we cannot be separated. The Nightmare will throw our worst fears at us. The more we give it, the longer our journey will seem! So you _cannot_ doubt me, or else we are _certain_ to fail!”

Solas caught her by the shoulders and dug his fingers into her armor to keep her still, but she jerked free.

“I'm so, so fucking serious," she said with furious tears in her eyes. "I need you all to promise me—we’re in this together. All of us are going to make it out of here, or none of us make it out together. Promise me you will try to believe that!

“Of course we cannot promise such a thing,” Cassandra replied forcefully. She took a step closer, her grip on her sword likewise tightening. “You are the only hope we have for the material world. _That_ is what I believe. I will do whatever it takes to ensure you escape.”

Ixchel realized suddenly she was shaking. Her head spun, like she hadn't caught her breath at all.

Something in the air changed as the Nightmare’s attention found them at last.

 **"What's wrong, Inquisitor?"** the Nightmare boomed, voice like rolling thunder across its domain. **"What is one more death compared to the massacre that you led your people to at Adamant? Why does _Cassandra_ matter more than the countless hopefuls who have fallen under a Red Templar's blade?"**

Ixchel clenched her fists and stared at Cassandra. “You see?” she said; her voice splintered with emotion.

"I'd follow you to the Void and back," Dorian said quickly. "But please don't take us there."

She did not turn to look at Solas. His hands settled on her shoulders again, just as firm, and he turned her to look at him.

 _"Ma ghilana,"_ he said. "I mean it. I have meant it."


	80. Chapter 101 Excerpts

For all she had just demanded of her companions, she didn’t believe herself.

"Look,” Solas said softly. “A dreamer, ensnared by the Nightmare."

 _"That_ is a dreaming child?" Cassandra gasped.

Ixchel limped over to where her companions had gathered around an out-of-place bed, in which the hazy form of a small child sat, weeping. Ixchel’s heart clenched at the sight.

"If one person doesn't matter, then I'm sure you won't care if I release these poor souls," she barked at the sky.

The Nightmare did not reply, and Ixchel sat on the bed beside the misty child.

_The Inquisitor... Momma says she saved us... She'll save Stuffy..._

And Ixchel felt as though something had been pulled out of her arms. Something small and soft and toy shaped, with buttons for eyes—

"I'll save Stuffy," she said softly. "The child lost their stuffed toy," she explained. “If we return it, the Nightmare loses a meal."

Solas immediately began looking in the area, and Cassandra followed after only a momentary look of disbelief. But Calpernia and Dorian hung back, exceedingly skeptical of everything witnessed here in the Fade.

“So why did you come back, Calpernia?” Dorian asked. Ixchel listened attentively, for she wondered the same thing.

Calpernia gave him a pinched look. “Clearly because I’m a damned fool,” she said tersely.

“Or, you wanted to join the ranks of Thedas’s greatest heroes,” Dorian offered.

-:-:-:-:-

"Inquisitor...is that...?" Dorian pointed, and Ixchel followed to find that he was staring at an eluvian.

A shattered eluvian.

Ixchel looked back at him, then at Solas.

“Could we find a working one?” Dorian asked quickly. “Perhaps the Anchor could be used to activate one?”

Ixchel shook her head vehemently. “I’m not trusting anything in this place,” she said. "We need to get out of here. Come on. Before my hand falls off."

They continued on in grim silence, until they approached a massive spire of red lyrium. Dorian stared up at it, pale-faced. "Can anyone possibly explain how there is red lyrium in the Fade?"

Before Ixchel could answer, the pain in her arm overwhelmed her. She cried out and clutched at her wrist, as though that had ever stopped the Anchor from eating away at her arm before. Solas caught her as her knees threatened to give way, and he lowered her slowly to the ground.

 _“Ir abelas,”_ he said softly. “It is…far more potent here.”

Ixchel nodded and squeezed her eyes shut to fight back tears of pain.

“The red lyrium… It's the Blight," she said through her teeth to Dorian as she jerked her head at the red crystals. "It's all connected. Corypheus is infused with the stuff. He used to be black but now that he's regained power he's red. The Red Templars get all these veins like Ghouls before they turn into whatever they turn into. And the Black City is black."

Everyone looked up at the floating city, except for Solas, who looked at Ixchel with a solemn expression. He had removed her gauntlet and now laced their fingers together, his skin cool and dry against the heat of the Anchor in her palm.

Once again…she was so close to something.

 _They_ were.

“And the Nightmare’s favorite fear has to be a fear of the Blight, ‘cause it’s never-ending,” Ixchel added finally.

"But...the Blight..." Cassandra shook her head. "I thought only living things..."

Ixchel stared back at Solas as Dorian and Calpernia came to the same conclusion. "Lyrium is alive?" Calpernia said. "Preposterous!"

"No, no," Dorian said slowly, "it makes sense! Cole says that Templars don't negate magic by reinforcing reality...but because they reject magic. Their bodies and souls reject it, because they're making room for something else. At least, that’s what Cole says. They listen too hard for the song…of something. The same something dwarves do." He covered his face with his hands. "But what living thing is it a part _of? Who_ is singing through the lyrium?"

"And why is it here?" Cassandra repeated.

"Why _does_ lyrium fuel magic, mages?" Ixchel pressed. "Perhaps it is more integral to the Fade than we know. But we don't have time for this, or for helping the individual dreamers, or fighting."

Calpernia took a deep breath. "You are right, Inquisitor. Such esoteric questions should be considered in a laboratory or a library." She gave Dorian a hard look, sniffed, and then continued walking past the red lyrium.

Solas helped Ixchel to her feet, but then released her hand. She nodded at him shortly; she already felt weak and exposed in front of Calpernia. She did not want to give the woman more reason to think her soft.

-:-:-:-:-

"I know because I have felt memories that were stolen, like the Inquisitor’s, " the Divine said dreamily. "This is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness and grows fat upon the terror... In truth, proving my existence either way would take time you do not have."

"Can you help us get out of the Fade?" Cassandra asked.

"That is why I am here," she said. She looked at Ixchel. "The Inquisitor knows what must be done, but she does not know the way. I will guide you through this lair."

Everyone looked at her, too, in varying shades of surprise and confusion. Ixchel shrank a little despite herself. "I need those fears back," she said to the ground.

"Whatever for?" Dorian demanded.

"Because it will never stop seeking me if it holds on to them," she said. "Because it will always have a part of me here in its clutches."

"They are guarded by powerful servants," the Divine said.

Ixchel ran a hand across her grimy face. "Fuck," she said.

"You said you did not know what it took from you," Solas said quietly.

She rounded on him, but didn't meet his gaze. “That’s true…but I have ideas.” She looked back at the Divine instead, a desperate question unvoiced in her mouth.

"It is the Nightmare's way, to inflict more pain, even in your victory," the Divine answered. "To regain these memories, your companions will witness your greatest fears. Such is the trial that lays before you."

Cassandra put her hands on Ixchel's shoulders. "We already know you lead us in spite of your fears, not because you are fearless," she said. "We three have seen the doubt and despair that plagues you. The things that put you on that _dinanshiral.”_ Her Nevarran accent and unpracticed tongue made the world fall heavy, like a blunt trauma to Ixchel’s ears, and she winced. “Whatever their source... It cannot make me doubt you, Inquisitor. Not after all we have been through."

Ixchel clasped one of Cassandra's gauntlets tight. "You've got my blind side," she said shakily, but she wasn't sure how much she believed that, in the end. Because she was a liar, wasn’t she? She was a failure, wasn’t she? And perhaps they were all about to find out.

She tried to identify all the gaps in her memory once again, as she had a hundred times. What were her three dearest friends and this stranger going to witness? Something from the last battle, but after Corypheus had already died. Something, or many things, from the Deep Roads. And any of a hundred other awful things she had forgotten, in the sea of her despairs.

Ixchel’s eyes ached, and her throat constricted tightly. She had tried so hard to avert this. She had not planned for this outcome. And now, her mind was too panicked and despairing to think of any option other than: _they are going to hate me when they find out._

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel sank to the ground with all the breath in her lungs stolen from her and gasped into the dark fetid pool beneath her. Solas sprang forward to lay a barrier over her and rain fire down on the Despair demon before it could get any closer.

When she finally got to her feet in the aftermath of the battle, she glowered at the mages. "Save your strength and mana," she told them in a weary voice. "That was one petty Despair. We have the Nightmare ahead of us."

She took a fearless step toward the glowing memory, but her swagger left her quickly. When she stood before it, it was all she could do to stare down at it glumly.

"Ixchel," Solas said gently.

 _He does not call me vhenan,_ she reminded herself. _He has changed so much. He has chosen differently._

_Maybe he will understand, when he finds out._

Ixchel bent painfully and picked the memory up. As soon as her fingers wrapped around it, it burst into a cloud of magic; the Fade swirled around them and swallowed up all the light in existence.

-:-:-:-:-

She wiped at her face again and rolled her shoulder. Her heart was racing in her chest. "It was a nightmare," she agreed.

"I'm glad you escaped," Dorian said. "At least you can remind yourself of that: you survived."

"In the moment it's hard to remember that,” she said. Ixchel grimaced, and she had to force herself not to reach for Solas’s hand. But she couldn’t help casting a glance his way, and she found his face tight with pain and sympathy.

He inclined his head ever so slightly toward her. He had promised to remind her, if she needed it; _she had survived._ He had promised to brace her against her fears.

 _Love is loss, and trust is fear,_ he had said.

And she was so afraid.

"You have reclaimed a part of yourself, Inquisitor," the Divine said. She had chosen that moment to reappear beside them, making every last one of them jump in terror. “Now the true trial begins.”


	81. Chapter 102 Excerpts

**"Ah..."** The voice of the Nightmare rumbled out from all around them. **"So the foolish little girl comes to steal the fear I _kindly_ lifted from her shoulders."**

Ixchel wanted to cover her ears, exactly as the child the Nightmare had described might. She caught herself and clenched her fists.

**"Has the pain ever really made you stronger, _da'len?_ Or has it simply corroded your armor, left gaps for enemies and friends alike?"**

It chuckled mirthlessly.

**"I suppose we shall see how your guests react. Do go on."**

Ixchel took a deep breath. “For what it’s worth,” she forced herself to say, but it came out so soft she wasn’t sure if she would be heard, “if anyone has to see my greatest fears… I’d rather it be you all.”

Dorian put his hand on the small of her back. “What Cassandra said holds true for me, and I’m sure for Solas, as well.”

Ixchel tried to smile, but her dry lips cracked with the effort. “I’ll try to trust that,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She followed after the Divine. The Divine did not look at her.

 _Are you Faith?_ Ixchel wondered. _Were you Love? What did this woman embody so much that you would take her form, identify so strongly with her?_

Ixchel’s thoughts wandered to Telana, and the spirit who had become so invested in her last moments, her search for Ameridan through the Fade… She wondered if that, too, had been Love. She had not even known, _then,_ to ask the question of Solas.

She wondered now if they would survive long enough to free Ameridan and let him be reunited with Telana in death.

-:-:-:-:-

Her next memory was guarded by a pack of fearlings and Terrors. Last time she had encountered them, they had taken the form of the massive rats that haunted the sewers of Markham—the ones that she had heard were vicious enough to eat a child right out of their mother's arms. Since she had never had a mother to even try to protect her…well, the rats had always inspired a visceral, immediate fear in her.

Now, of course, they looked like the Dread Wolf.

She tried to remind herself that no one else saw what she saw. In fact, Cassandra and Dorian kept a running commentary on the horrors they saw as they battled. They saw spiders and maggots and snakes. They saw rats. They did not see Dalish bogeymen.

When the last demon had fallen and melted away into the fade, Ixchel found herself standing closer to Solas. "What do you see?" she asked under her breath.

He gave her a flickering smile. "Hares."

She knew how _she_ felt when he looked at her with grief, so she tried not to let her own show on her face. But she realized the implications of this, his visceral, fearful reaction to hares. She clenched her jaw and gave him a brief touch on the elbow.

Solas looked away.

Ixchel went to reclaim her next memory, heart in her throat as she anticipated that this would be the one to reveal her secret at last—

_Booming gatlok in the Deep. The waters of the Buried Sea rising up around her. It was impossible to tell what direction was up or down, as the faded lyrium lamps of the Deep Roads reflected above and below the dark, rushing water._

_She shouted: "Anyone?!?" but was met only with echoes._

_For one crystal-clear moment, Ixchel knew she was going to die. She was going to die, and there would be no one to look for her, no one to know what had happened... Not even_ he _would be able to reach these ruins to dream of her… If he would even miss her._

_He had left, after all._

_In the end, she had only ever been a pawn. A little girl, so below his attention, his aspirations, his power—no, he would not come looking for her._

_Then a hand was on her foot. The Qunari shock-trooper dragged her down into a deeper pool and scrabbled to find her throat. The abrupt fall had left her winded, and cold water, acrid with minerals and lyrium, flooded her mouth and lungs._

_For a moment, a part of her viciously welcomed death. But then her body moved of its own accord: a desperate need to survive that surpassed her conscious desires and acted, fought, struggled to live as the Qunari’s hands tightened around her throat and tried to crush her wind pipe._

_She grabbed a hold of the man's little finger and bent it back until it broke._

_He released his grip on reflex, howling in pain. Ixchel clawed her way through rubble and broke up into air again, but the water was rising quickly._

_And everything had gone dark._

Ixchel blinked at the memory. "Hah," she said softly. “That wasn’t so ba—”

 **"Such a small gift you gave me… So small that I nearly underestimated its value,"** the Nightmare purred.

Her jaw clenched, angered at being interrupted, and afraid of what it might be about to say.

**"You may wear the Watcher's marks on your face, but you are _his_ slave nonetheless. For the Iron Bull is right, isn’t he, _da’len?”_**

Ixchel’s limbs were still numb with the remembered waters of the Deep Roads. Now, she stared up at the Breach with a dawning sense of horror that was beyond even that which she had just remembered feeling alone in the flooding tunnels.

**“Yes. You cling to that which you fear the most... Give up, little girl... Let go."**

Ixchel forced herself to move, and she picked up a stone and hurled it with all her strength in the direction she knew the Nightmare resided. It laughed.

**"That's right. You _tried_ to let go, but he would not release you. Tell me, do you yet know whether your for him love was true? Or was his vallaslin eternally inscribed on your heart by his cruelty?”**

"That's enough!" Cassandra roared.

-:-:-:-:-

Dorian wrapped his arms around Ixchel suddenly, and she realized she was shaking.

She was nearly overcome with rage, but at its core was a terrible fear she had not known before—something she had not allowed herself to examine, and something the Nightmare had stolen from her so that she _couldn’t_ examine it.

For so long she had been grappling with her anger at the Solas she had known, tried to set it aside and focus on the Solas she knew now. She had doubted if she could _let herself love_ Solas now, because she found it so hard to believe that he had changed his plans. She struggled to maintain faith that he would stay off his _din’an’shiral…_

 _But…did_ she love him because her life was so meaningless outside of that mission? Did she _stop_ herself from loving anyone _but_ him? Did she love him because that was the only way she could focus on saving him, and the world? Did she love him because of some strange magical manipulation due to the pieces of himself that were within her, gluing her soul together? Did she love him because he had been the one to break her apart in the first place—under the weight of his love, his faith, his impossible hope in the impossible duty he had given her?

No. She had always loved him, just as she had always loved any of her dearest companions. She had loved him as a friend. She had loved him more as a kindred spirit. She had admired his knowledge, his artistry, his skill, his loyalty, his ideals—and no matter the monster he believed himself to be, and no matter the _din’an’shiral,_ he was still that man, and that was who she had come to love.

And she had loved him before he had twisted her into this desperate, crippled thing that ended her own life. Before he had reshaped her into what _he_ remembered of her and sent her back.

She might never know how much of _who_ she was today was because of him—because of his hurt, because of his plots, because of his meddling, because of his magic. But that much was true about Dorian, too, and in a smaller way Bull and Cassandra too.

They had made her into the woman she was now, and she had loved them _all,_ and she had left them—

Ixchel had started to cry into Dorian’s chest. He fisted a hand in her hair and crushed her as close to him as he could to try and contain her, but she was falling apart.

“Well, fuck Bull and his psychoanalysis,” Dorian said to the top of her head. She laughed, and it was a terrible sound: a wet half-shriek.


	82. Chapter 103 Excerpts

The screams grew louder.

_What happened? Where are the paths? Where are the paths?!_

_They will send people. They will save us!_

_When have you last heard from the gods? When the Veil came down, they went silent!_

_Gods save me, the floor is gone. Do not let me fall. Do not let me—!_

Ixchel knew that no one but she and Solas would know that catastrophe had come from Vir Dirthara—and that Solas wouldn’t know necessarily that _she_ knew. Yet even so, the sounds of true terror were universally chilling. Solas’s shoulders were tense as he turned back to Ixchel, and his eyes were dark and full of self-hatred.

Ixchel would have reached for him if she had not been distracted by something far more troubling:

All the blood that had pooled on the ground was now writhing like warring snakes in the direction of the shattered eluvian. Ixchel stared in horror at the mirror as it came to life, not blindingly bright like an eluvian but so utterly dark it felt like she were staring into the Void itself.

But the whispers she heard weren’t from the mirror.

They were from the red lyrium all around them:

_We are here_   
_We have waited_   
_We have slept_   
_We are sundered_   
_We are crippled_   
_We are polluted_   
_We endure_   
_We wait_   
_We have found the dreams again_   
_We will awaken_

Ixchel stared into the Void with such terrible, terrible fear mounting in her that she could not breathe. Her mouth tasted like deathroot, like the Blight—she felt it like poison gas in her lungs, in her blood—and under the whispers she could hear the song of red lyrium louder than anything she had _ever_ heard in her _life._

And it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard, and it was the only thing she _could_ hear. The voice of the Calling sang to her of some memory she had forgotten, that had been forgotten by all—a memory so precious, so lovely, she would do anything to recover it.

But the voices knew that she knew the _truth._

And out of the darkness, she saw something stir—

Solas stepped bodily in front of her and pushed her back away from the mirror.

“You cannot listen,” he said vehemently.

“But I understand,” she replied, as groggy as though she had just woken from a deep dream. But behind him, the mirror had become a shattered eluvian again, not a yawning portal to an abyss. She shook her head and turned away from it…and then found herself faced with an army of shades.

She activated her chromatic great sword and gave herself a shake. “I hate this place,” she sighed.

-:-:-:-:-

 _“I’m sorry.”_ And her voice had gotten small, choked with tears. _“I don’t want to hurt you, Dorian, but—I hurt so much more.”_

_“Ixchel!!! Ixchel!!! No! No! Ixchel—”_

Ixchel stared down at the crystal, unseeing. Her vision was too full of tears that would not fall. She stood there with Dorian’s screams echoing in her ears, and she waited for judgment to fall upon her.

So that was what it had taken from her. Not the terrible numbness of the deathroot. It had left that there, to torment her when she sought to evade the Nightmare with bitter herbs. Not the despair itself that had driven to her such means. That had been too entrenched in her heart and soul for it to extract.

No.

It had found _this,_ her biggest regret.

When she couldn’t tell Dorian the truth, it had made him find out the truth in the worst way possible.

It was the only _abjectly cruel_ thing she had ever really done. Dorian had known her so well, cared for her so much, and she knew how much it would hurt him if he knew how low she had fallen. She knew how much it was going to haunt him for years to come, that he could do nothing for her in that terrible moment. She had known, but she had also _needed someone to know,_ and so it had been him, the last person who saw her so clearly and loved her still—

Her biggest regret, and what she was most afraid of: that part of her that could be so hopeless that such considerations had been laid by the wayside.

Perhaps he had deserved this revenge upon her after all.

There was silence all around her. Not even the Nightmare spoke.

And then Dorian approached.

He walked past Ixchel and bent to pick up the crystal. He straightened slowly and did not meet her eyes as he turned the tiny pendant over in his hands.

“Those Still Ruins,” he said at last. His voice quavered tellingly. “I knew there was something…connecting you and time magic.”

Ixchel continued to stare at the ground.

“Time magic?” Cassandra repeated incredulously. “ _That’s_ what that was? A Redcliffe?”

Dorian shook his head. “No, that was a memory, from Ixchel’s past. Because Ixchel is from a future,” he said slowly.

Ixchel swayed a little. “A future,” she repeated. Not _the_ future. That was right, at least. She hoped.

“But—I do not understand,” Cassandra said helplessly. “You came back in time?”

The Inquisitor wrapped her arms around herself.

“I believe she had to have been _sent,”_ Dorian said. His voice grew softer, lower with every word. “Because that was the moment you tried to kill yourself, wasn’t it?”

Ixchel blinked, and tears splattered at her feet.

Calpernia was staring at her from the side, white as a ghost and trying to make herself unnoticed—aware that she was an intruder in what should have been the most private and terrible of moments.

Solas, too, was utterly, terribly silent.

“Just as it does not matter what story you tell yourself about what I am,” the Divine said, suddenly standing beside Ixchel, “it does not matter from where the Inquisitor was sent. I am helping you escape the Fade. She is helping you save your world.”

Ixchel closed her eyes entirely. They could discuss what they liked, come to whatever conclusions they would come to, but she needed to find the strength to move forward, and she could not do that with Solas’s eyes boring into her back.

Without looking at anyone, she turned and set off slowly in the direction of the Nightmare.

And they let her go.


	83. The Truth (Chapters 103 and 104 Excerpts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -:-:-:-:-

To her surprise and dismay, she found a statue of Mythal not far down the path. But finding no place more dry to sit, she lowered herself to its feet and leaned back against the damp stone, still hugging herself.

She sat there with her eyes closed and tried to regain control of her swimming head.

It was easier than she expected. In fact, she had a gauzy sense of detachment from the situation.

Now they knew. They knew she had come from some future where she had ‘given up’ because of ‘the pain.’ If she were lucky, that’s what they would focus on.

But she knew better than to hope for that. If any one were to pick up on _who_ she had given up on, it would be Dorian and Solas. And she did not know how to answer them if they asked.

She could lie and tell them it was Corypheus. That this was the very struggle that had claimed her.

But no matter what, Solas could always tell when she lied.

**_“Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_ **

She did not raise her head, did not listen to hear Solas’s response.

_**“Ma banal las halamshir va vhen…”** _

Ixchel wept as the Nightmare turned her own words against him.

**“Yes, go to her. Abandon them and besmirch her memory, all for a quickling _rahngirem_ who will never satisfy you and your Pride.”**

She wept for Solas, for his fear of _hares,_ and wondered if his suffering for Mythal had been the first step on his _din’an’shiral_ to restore his People.

_You are not an acceptable sacrifice._

Ixchel wept for Solas—for all he had suffered, for all he had sacrificed. She wept because she had asked him to sacrifice her, too, and he had said _no, vhenan._

But he couldn’t say no for himself.

And she wept for Solas, that she would be forced to tell him of the pain he had caused her, the sacrifices he had made, the terrible fate he had found for the both of them.

 **“He did not love you enough to kill you,”** the Nightmare whispered. **“None of it was real, and he burned the nightmare—with you in it.”**

Solas stopped a few feet away from Ixchel and stood there, motionless, his hands at his sides. Perhaps he was at a loss.

There was simply too much to address. The distance they had come, the hurdles they had surpassed, only made this that much more catastrophic: the foundation of everything they had built was threatened.

She didn’t dare allow herself to hope to know what was in his mind, so she feared, instead. Every fiber of her being quivered in anticipation as she waited for him to be cold, to be cruel, to accuse—

“Whose vallaslin is on your heart?” he asked, in a hushed voice.

She glanced up at him and found that, as this terrible truth dawned on him, he saw her in a new light. But so much of what _she_ saw in his eyes was so terribly familiar to her.

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” she begged. “With pity. With that grief. You knew I was shaped by tragedies.”

His face hardened, but that was not better. “You called me your _god,”_ he said more forcefully. The tension within her drew close to snapping. “It wasn’t just that you suspected. You knew. _I did that to you.”_

“If you can consider _your_ world a different world than this,” she said, nearly spitting with how strongly her anger and her sorrow and her fear all mixed within her, “just because it lives in the _past,_ then you can consider _him_ different than _you,”_ she replied. She pressed her eyes against the leather of her vambraces again and exhaled heavily through her teeth. “Because I do.”

He drew one step closer, but he did not kneel, and he did not reach for her. The weight of his silence spoke volumes, and it infuriated her to know the wheels in his mind were turning—and that she was not privy to whatever self-hating narrative he was spinning for himself.

“You are not him!” she half-shrieked to her knees. “You are _not_ him!”

“I called you _vhenan,”_ he said with wretched disgust. “And I drove you to _suicide.”_

Ixchel shook her head and sobbed. “He didn’t tell me until the end,” she protested. “We were never… ‘ _Ane mala vasreëm.’_ Cole told me that’s why he left. He thought it would free me, and him.”

Solas drew a startled breath. “So why, then?”

Ixchel trembled. She knew that she owed him whatever answers he wanted from her.

Solas knelt now. His hands lay upon his knees, palms up in a non-aggressive show.

But his voice was unyielding.

“Tell me now, Ixchel.”

“I was tired,” she said wetly. “I was tired of being Thedas’s hope. I was tired of being alone.”

Ixchel rested her head on her hand and closed her eyes as tears weighted her lashes.

“I was sixteen when I went to the Conclave. I’d never had a family before. I’d never had a home. And then I had the Inquisition, and I had Skyhold…” She exhaled slowly. “He and I had always been close. I figured out who he was on my own, long before we defeated Corypheus. But after we won…he left, with no explanation. And… Two years—nothing, I couldn’t find him…and everyone started to leave.”

She swallowed what felt like glass or embers, but they were just words.

“I disbanded the Inquisition. What was left of it. And then…when the Anchor was going to kill me…he drew me through Vir Dirthara to the hidden valley, and he told me his plan for the world…and why.”

She paused as tears dripped down her face and her throat tightened to the point where she did not know if she could continue. But the truth—it was her truth, and she would be the one to claim it. Not the Nightmare with its manipulated glimpses. Not Solas with the shadows and self-hatred in his heart.

The truth, once spoken, began to pour from her mouth, and a pressure in her chest began to ease even as her heart broke anew:

“I asked him to let me help, but he refused. I asked him to kill me instead, but he refused. And I realized—he _wanted_ me to stop him! He took my arm and saved my life and left me with _vhenan.”_ Her voice broke, but she had continued to strain, and the words fell from her mouth broken into sounds that meant nothing to her own ears. “While I lived, I knew I would always try to stop him…but I was so alone…and I was so _tired.”_

Ixchel was suddenly so exhausted and hopeless that looking at him did not seem so terrible. She raised her head enough to peer at him through swollen eyes, and she found his face wet with a sheen of his own tears.

But there was a hatred in his gaze that she had never seen before.

She wanted to howl. She wanted to tear her hair. _It is not you!_ she wanted to scream. But the anger she saw, she recognized, for it was the very same that she had so often swallowed. Ixchel tightened her fingers on herself as her resentment and _pain_ welled up within her fresh as the day the wounds had been inflicted.

And she gave voice to it at last.

“Yes, it was cruel,” she warbled. “He would tell me he loved me, but deny my desire to be together. He would tell me I had made him realize that world’s worth, but he still destroyed it. He would tell—”

She cut herself off with a sob.

“And in the end—I don’t know what happened—I was nothing, I was no one, I was part of a multitude, and then he was there, and he gave _everything_ to me.” She held out her arms to illustrate. “He gave me the body he remembered. His power. His _hope._ Everything he did was to spare me his _fucking_ burden, but then at the end he put it all on me again!”

Ixchel yanked her arms back close to hold herself together. She was shaking from head to toe with anger and pain. “But I was already being called back by _Dorian. He_ gave everything to pull me back, and he opened a rift and threw me out at the Conclave.”

A terrible sound wrenched from her chest, and she curled ever inward.

“The blood of so many worlds is on my hands. Yours, mine, and Redcliffe—twice over!”

Her exclamation cut through the air and left a bitter silence in its wake. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“And I have yours on mine,” he said at last.

Ixchel clenched her teeth and threw back her head to give him a vicious look. “You are _not_ him!” she shouted. “Just _don’t be him!”_

Solas rose to his feet and towered over her—every inch the god, every atom of him full of grief and despair. The Fade did not respond, and the Veil did not warp, but Ixchel felt the magic _inside_ her twist in response to his anger and his despair. Mortal as he could be, he was a storm as much as he was a man—a force of nature—

“I will never be anyone but myself, Ixchel,” he said venomously.

“Just because you know you are capable doesn’t mean it is inevitable!” she bellowed. “Our paths need not end there!”

“I deserve worse than death for all that I have done!” Solas snapped back at her. “For what I would do if—”

And they both seemed to forget how to breathe for a moment. Ixchel’s every muscle had seized, waiting for what he was about to say.

Solas’s chest rose and fell once, in a sharp, shallow breath. His throat worked around the words.

“…If you had not made me doubt my path.”

The cool relief in her clashed with the fear and the anger in her and only wound her tighter. Fresh tears, angry and aggrieved, poured down her face. She could hardly see him, but she stared up at him miserably. “I _have_ to believe it’s not inevitable,” she said.

His eyes searched her face for a moment too long, and he shrank back—almost imperceptibly, but she felt it as though he had pulled her heart from her chest and set off running with it.

“Solas,” she whispered. “You doubt. You _regret._ That is more than any of the would-be gods I have faced. That is more than the would-be gods _you_ faced. And you have seen more paths available to you than he ever did. Telanadas.”

“This entire time, you have been trying to save your world,” he said. “You have been equivocating, and analyzing, and predicting…carrying…working…”

Ixchel offered him a tired, sore smile, then lowered her face to the ground and sniffed. “Am I not _Rogasha’ghi’lan?”_ she croaked wearily. “It’s who I am. It’s what put me in that dark place before.”

Her throat worked painfully around her what she was about to say. “I meant it when I said that _whatever_ you are to me, I want us to face the path ahead together. We don’t… You don’t have to feel… But loving you is not a _strategy,_ Solas. Please… Believe that.”

Solas nearly staggered. “But how you could _possibly…_ You _shouldn’t,”_ he said, grimacing against the pain of it, and the tears were in his voice now. “How could you…?”

“I didn’t at first,” she insisted tearfully. “Everything the Nightmare said had a grain of truth at its heart. That doesn’t mean it’s the _only_ truth, Solas.”

She rose painstakingly to her feet.

“I did not always love him, and I did not always love you. But I have always _cared_ about you. This—”

Ixchel gestured between them, to illustrate their relationship, as complex and confounding as it had so often been.

“—has always been _about you_. Trying to see _you_ and not _him._ Trying to hear _you_ and not him. Trying to understand _you_ and not him! And I have seen the shadow your pain casts! I have seen the grief in you! And I know the pain I saw in him as he walked the _din’an’shiral_ —and I don’t want that for _you_ because I am your _friend!”_

Solas closed his eyes and another tear streaked down his dirty, blood-stained cheek.

“You fight for the freedom of all thinking creatures. You fight for the overlooked, the downtrodden. You are _beautiful,_ and you create beauty.” Her tears had not abated in the least, but nevertheless these truths brought a pained smile to her own face. She reached for his hands, and he did not draw away. “You are the kind of person who _would_ walk the _din’an’shiral_ for your People. Why couldn’t I love you? Why shouldn’t I love you?”

Solas’s grief nearly tore him. It reached his ears, his mouth, his eyes—everything about him was crushed under the weight of her words. “You _cannot,”_ he said raggedly.

Ixchel’s grip tightened on his hands. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.” She swallowed thickly. “I… Alright.” She bowed her head. “I am sorry for hiding this from you. I… I knew I would lose you either way. _Ar ame ir abelas, lethallin—”_

And suddenly he returned the grip on her hands as everything about him tightened. A terrible shudder tore through him. “ _Ar lath ma, Ixchel,”_ he said wretchedly. “But it will never be enough.”

“You are,” Ixchel insisted. _“You_ are. For me.”

She looked up at his shimmering eluvian eyes; a fresh wave of tears crested his lashes and spilled down his cheeks, and she told herself again: _he is not him._

He contemplated her for a moment longer, then raised his hand to trace his thumb across her bottom lip. All of the cracks and fractures in Ixchel’s heart burned with something like hope.

“You have walked your paths with open eyes,” he murmured haltingly, “but that was not only foreknowledge. It was hope. And faith.” He swallowed. “I will not be the one to take them from you now.”

Solas leaned forward and slanted his lips softly across hers. She tried to kiss him back—she wanted to—but the feelings within her were engaged in too violent a war. She broke away and buried her face in his chest, sobbing, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly to shroud her.

 _“Ir abelas, ‘ma’lath,”_ she pleaded. “I have been so afraid of telling you.”

 **“With good reason, _da’len!”_ **the Nightmare interrupted viciously. **“Pride would remake the world in your image…and you would ruin it, just like you ruin everything you touch.”**

Ixchel realized that the Nightmare’s voice was uncharacteristically _angry_ as it harassed Solas, and she clung to him more tightly to help him weather its fury.

**“You never could get the likeness right, painter.”**

Solas exhaled heavily into Ixchel’s hair. He dug his fingers almost painfully into her arms as he held her, holding him.

“There are many things I need to know, Ixchel,” he said, voice quavering. “I do not know if we have the time.”

She pulled him down again, to sit at the feet of Mythal, and they curled around each other tightly. “Ask, ‘ _ma’lath,”_ she whispered.

“You said two,” Solas said. “Two betrayals.”

Ixchel nearly bit her tongue. “I’m glad I’m back, but I’m also…” She swallowed. “I had _decided._ And of anyone in the world—” her throat was full of tears again “—Dorian _knew._ And he took that from me.”

Solas shivered. “And so you stayed behind in Haven? To reclaim your choice?”

Ixchel scoffed a little. “I knew what I was capable of,” she said, “and I’ve never been afraid of Corypheus, or his dragon, or the Fade.” She paused. “But I’m afraid of the part of me that’s _tired._ And I was _tired._ As I often am, of forcing myself to hope.” She brushed at her eyes. “Cole and I have talked some. Before Haven, after Imshael…the night I spoke to Bull… It’s a hard choice. Hope. But…it’s been easier, lately.”

His breaths were becoming far closer to sounding like sobs. “I introduced Cole to Wisdom,” he said shakily. “After you saved her…You saved her because you knew?”

“I saved her because it was right.”

He was quiet for a while as he fought to regain his composure.

 _“Din’an Hanin_ —and the Revenant?”

“I don’t know.” She swallowed. “There’s something inside me I don’t understand. Something Cole and Amarok see…” She wriggled her arms free to look down at the Anchor. “It _does_ tie me to you. It _does_ interact with the Anchor. But…there’s more than that, and I don’t understand.”

He did not meet her gaze as tears continued to roll down his cheeks. “I do not know enough of what happened to know what could have gone wrong as the Veil came down… I do not know why I chose to find you, instead of restoring my people… I do not even understand how it was possible to do so…” He drew a shaky breath. “Perhaps that is why you are so strange… In so many ways, you are like the Elvhen. But in so many ways, you are not…”

Ixchel took a deep breath. “I have one guess. But…Solas, there is one more thing I must tell you.”

He held her tightly and nodded.

“Mythal… A part of Mythal…is alive.”

Solas’s grip on her shifted, but there was not so much shock on his face as there was the same deep concern that he had worn this entire time.

“She used someone to obtain the soul of the Old God Urthemiel when it was slain,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t understand how…or what it means…but I think… Do I have it?”

He closed his eyes slowly. “Ixchel…”

“I know that it’s the Titans singing through lyrium. But the Calling I hear in red lyrium…the way I can sense Blighted things…the whispers we just heard—”

“They have found the dreams again.” Solas bowed his head and rested his forehead against her temple. His voice was swollen and tight. “You are not under a geas. Let that be a small comfort.”

“If I have it, then that means he had it, which means he took it from Mythal,” she said. “Can you take it from me? Must you?”

“No,” he said immediately. He sighed heavily in her ear. “That…that is something we can discuss later. Among…so many other things.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I know.” He leaned back to gaze into her eyes. “I am as well.”

She cupped his face in his hands and brushed away his tears urgently, though her own had started to flow again. “The last time I was here, it was Stroud, Hawke, Varric, you, and Cassandra. We couldn’t defeat the Nightmare, and Hawke stayed behind to cover our retreat.”

His lips quirked in a poisonous, self-deprecating smirk. “Ah. So that is why they are not here.”

She gave him a sad look. “I avoided so many terrible things. I wanted to avoid this most of all. I was so afraid of this… It has two Aspects—it _is_ a Fear demon, but it’s…so much worse.”

“We will escape,” he promised. “We will keep the first Aspect out of the way, and you must be single-minded in opening the rift. Then, everyone must flee, and you must close the rift before the Nightmare can follow.”

Her heart felt brittle. Their relationship, their trust, felt brittle. “I don’t want you to stay behind. But…I know…the Black City…”

“That would be impossible,” he assured her darkly. He did not break her gaze, did not look away. _“We. Will. Escape.”_

She nodded and sniffled. “I trust you, Solas.”

His eyes creased at the corners in a look of painful, disbelieving adoration.

“What else will the others see?” he asked.

Ixchel shook her head slowly. “It’s the moment he left, the first time,” she said. “At the end of the battle with Corypheus I have a blank spot. But… I don’t think it will reveal your secret.”

She could feel his relief.

“I think that’s all,” she said. “Unless our host decides to out you.”

His lips twisted again, and his eyes flickered up to their goal in the distance. “We shall deal with that if it comes to it,” he said. “I am beginning to guess… I doubt that it would be so direct.”

Solas chuckled and raised his hands to cover hers, where she still cupped his face. He held on to her wrists and sighed. “You are my happiness,” he said. “You are my love… But this has shaken us.”

Ixchel bit her lip as his gaze found hers again, dark and serious.

“It will be as much an exercise as it ever has been, to trust each other. It will never be enough, but my word…my word is a start. _Var lath vir suledin.”_

He sealed his vow with a kiss despite the tears and the gore and the grime hat coated both of them. She accepted it, tucked the promise deep within her, and kissed him back.


	84. Chapter 105 Excerpts

Despite her raised spirits, their journey suddenly seemed endless. Ixchel tried not to let her heart sink at the sight of it. She walked with her dearest friends arrayed around her, and she drew as much strength from that as she could. But the new distance between them and their goal hurt, for what it meant.

“It is not their doubt for you that clings,” their Spirit guide said suddenly. She did not turn from the road ahead. “It is their doubt for themselves.”

“Because of me,” Ixchel said quietly. Solas’s grip tightened on her hand.

No one could really look at one another, and Ixchel could not think of what to say to brace them. And so the journey remained a long one.

They passed more shattered eluvians—for a total of five—but ignored the temptation to investigate them. It felt like they walked for hours uphill before the Spirit leading them suddenly led them off to a side path.

-:-:-:-:-

 **“You never considered failure before, in your Pride,”** the Nightmare boomed, yet Ixchel felt that it was speaking as much to her, and to Calpernia, as it was to Solas. **“Have you considered considering it, yet?”**

-:-:-:-:-

When Ixchel returned, Solas extended a hand and pulled her down to sit in his lap. He held the Anchor between them in both of his hands and kneaded at where it cramped and burned the most, as though he could sense it. Perhaps he could. It hurt to have his fingers press into the tight cords along the back of her hand and push into her palm, but it dispersed some of the worse pain, so she gritted her teeth and let him continue.

“The moment we return—no matter what lies on the other side of the rift—I must stabilize the Anchor,” he said under his breath. “And you will require medical attention.”

She raised a single eyebrow at him. “How do you know?”

“Optimistically, you are severely bruised and have soft tissue damage to your knee and shoulder. You had trauma to your head,” he said, touching his temple very gentle to hers. “I am more concerned that you have a non-displaced rib fracture.” He glanced pointedly at the dented side of her armor. “It is difficult to tell. You have a high pain tolerance.”

“Oh, I do?” she mused. “Wonder why.”

He gave her a dour smirk. “A decade of adventuring would do it to anyone. But you are not anyone."

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I have a cracked rib, Solas." She gave him an insistent look. "From experience. _And_ I’m not concussed.”

He sighed. “You could still have catastrophic bleeding—”

“I will seek medical attention immediately,” she promised. “And you will come with me and stabilize the Anchor. But don't worry in the meantime.” She settled closer in his arms. “I wonder what we will find. Last time there were significantly more demons.”

“Hopefully, a dead dragon.”

She snorted wearily. “I’m not going to go scouring the Abyssal Reach for it. I saw the…fragment…Corypheus put in it—so I think it’s definitely dead. Whatever he finds to replace it can’t be worse than an adult, Blighted dragon.”

Solas was quiet for a moment as he contemplated that. “No, there are few things worse than that. I doubt he will venture to the depths of the ocean to search for them.”

She remembered Ghilan'nain, then, and her monsters. She remembered the Frost Troll in the Frostback Basin, and its magic... “Solas, we have so much to talk about. I have so many questions I never had answered,” she murmured. “I came across so many of your frescoes, _'ma'lath_ …”

He laced their fingers together and held her hand close to his heart. “I will try to answer what I can, ‘ _ma’lath,_ but…” He breathed deeply, but she did not need to look up at him to see the worry on his face. “There will yet be some things…”

“Me too,” she said. “One step at a time. _Ir abelas._ I have had a weight lift—that does not mean I am ready to fly.”

He squeezed her hand. “We walk this path together.”

The Spirit, or the Divine, floated closer. “It is time.”

Ixchel groaned and picked herself up out of Solas’s arms, then held her hand out to pull him up. The rest of her party joined her with seemingly equal exhaustion. They were silent as it led them to the next memory.

Ixchel activated it without fear, and the Fade responded around them.

_And Ixchel was picking herself up out of the rubble of her final battle. She was gravely wounded, and her breath rattled wetly in her throat as she looked around for any survivors._

_They sky above them was calm, and only a thin, flickering sliver remained of the Breach._

_She found Solas, all in black, with her wolf pelt over his shoulder—hunched on the ground. His staff was nowhere to be seen._

_She staggered over to him. “Solas!”_

_He drew a sharp breath, and she saw what he was shielding with his body: the broken fragments of the orb._

_Ixchel slowed to a halt._

_“It is not—your fault.”_

_He set down the shattered remains of the orb and stood slowly. For a brief moment when he turned to her, the devastation was clear on his face. But as his gaze met hers, she took several steps toward him._

_“There’s more isn’t there?” she asked desperately. “What’s wrong?”_

_“It was not supposed to happen this way,” he said, almost pleading. He turned from her and looked across the shattered battlefield. “No matter what comes…I want you to know…”_

_He raised his face to the clearing sky, and for a brief moment, all she saw was the silver of his eyes._

_“You have made the world worthy,” he said. “I am grateful for all you have taught me…and I am sorry.”_

_Ixchel swayed on her feet. “Solas…?”_

_“Inquisitor!”_

_Cassandra raced toward her, clattering her way across the ruins. “Inquisitor, we must find a healer—healer! I have found her!”_

_Ixchel’s knees buckled, but even as Cassandra swung her up into her arms, Ixchel reached for Solas._

_But he had turned._

_And he walked away._


	85. Chapter 106 Excerpts

Ixchel’s mind resurfaced with a jolt as Solas drew upon the Anchor in an attempt to stabilize it. Her nails dug into his arm tightly as she wheezed, overwhelmed by the pain of the magic in her arm and the beating her body had suffered.

“You have prevailed, Inquisitor,” he said. “Your people come now to praise you. This will be but a moment longer.”

“Arghhhhh,” she groaned, and she tried to roll away from him, but he followed, murmuring weary apologies.

Cassandra sank to her knees beside them. She was breathing heavily. “M-my sword? My armor!”

Ixchel peered up at her through narrow, watering eyes. “Fade-touched,” she said through her teeth. Her arm spasmed with another flare of the Anchor, and she curled in on herself with a cry.

“This is the last of it—” Solas promised, but she wasn’t sure if she believed him. “You have been Fade-touched, too.”

 _“You’re_ Fade-touched,” she said nonsensically, and Dorian laughed somewhere behind her.

“There.”

Solas eased his grip on her, but she did not release her own hold on him.

“Help me stand,” she rasped.

He obeyed, though he staggered a little under her weight. He seemed to be just as exhausted as she was. As soon as she tried to straighten up, the wound in her side protested, and her knees nearly buckled. But she forced herself to raise her head, for her soldiers, and the Wardens, and her friends had amassed around her. The central courtyard of Adamant was once again alive with cheers and roars and shouts about their Herald stepping through the Fade once again.

-:-:-:-:-

She was unconscious when they reached the eluvian, and it was only as she was carried through it that she woke to the sound of its magic. She found that Bull still carried her.

“Man, it’s a lot easier to walk in here when I’m carrying you,” he muttered.

“It likes me,” she mumbled.

“Go back to sleep, _sataareth,”_ he said quietly. “We got you.”

When she woke next, Bull had laid her down on her bed. He gave her a wink and a salute as he turned to leave, and Solas stepped in behind him. She reached for him immediately, and he collapsed into bed beside her. He laced their fingers together and kissed her knuckles lightly. “No more Nightmare,” he said hopefully. She nodded, already falling limp again. “Rest well, Ixchel.”

“You too, Solas,” she said with a yawn. “You can wander again, my love.”

And it seemed that he did; in the few moments where her exhausted mind wandered the Fade somewhat consciously, she could feel his presence in the distance, but he did not intrude—and he indeed had no need to. No outside forces broke in to her dreams, and, for all that had happened, it seemed her mind was too spent to conjure fears of its own making.

She woke rested and whole after an unknown amount of time, and she slipped out of Solas’ arms to go bathe. He did not stir when she got up, so deeply asleep he seemed. She tried to keep quiet as she drew a bath, and she did most of her scrubbing still standing out on the tiles so that she wouldn’t slosh too much. Once she was mostly clean, she slipped slowly into the water and sank down into the tub with a sigh.


	86. Chapter 107 Excerpts**

Solas's hand appearing on her head jolted her from the Fade in a flail of limbs.

Solas did not let her stand but rather squeezed in alongside her. Just as she had anticipated, the sharp smell of the Fade clung to him like air that had been sundered in the wake of lightning, as did a layer of sweat and dirt and the ever-present smell of old Blight that permeated the western atmosphere.

She was too distracted by the look in his eye to care overmuch, however. In fact, she was glad to be entwined with him; it reaffirmed to her that whatever they were about to speak of, he was not anticipating the need to flee.

He did not seem in a hurry to broach whatever heavy topic weighed on his mind, and that was fine. She brushed the backs of her fingers along his cheek, then touched the thin scar that streaked across his temple and up his scalp.

“I couldn’t spare you this indignity either,” she mused.

“Does it not make me rugged?” he wondered.

“Oh, very, my love,” she replied. She did not tell him that he had received a scar at Adamant in her other life, much the same as this. It would only disturb him, and she found that it did not disturb her after all. For all the pain she had endured—she had spared her people so much. A scar was an easy price.

Amarok, less so.

“Did you know what Amarok was?” she asked softly.

“He was a Spirit of some kind,” he said, “though I did not know if he possessed the body of the wolf or was, like Cole, one who crossed the Veil willingly... I knew only that he was not malicious.” He paused. “And he had become dear to you.”

Ixchel chewed her lip for a moment. “He was the Regret from Crestwood,” she admitted, and his brow creased. “I knew I could not let him shape himself to you… I have fought a Regret left by Fen’Harel before. But I never suspected that he… I don’t understand why. But you and Cole will be the only ones who know the truth about him,” she murmured. “We’ll be the only ones who remember him.”

He exhaled slowly. “For a time,” he allowed. “It is…strange, how we give life to things in the retelling. You have spoken so wisely of it.”

Ixchel tightened her grip on him, for something darker had crossed his face, and she sensed that he was gathering the courage to speak his mind now. She wished to impart her support without interrupting, and it was all she could do to hold him.

“Yet…to be presented with another self, as I have been…” He took a slow breath, then released it. “I realize how true it is that to speak of this self _is_ to give it a life of its own. And I do not know if I deserved that.”

Ixchel bit her lip. She had many contradictory thoughts to offer, each more panicked and willful than the last, but she knew better now than to equivocate preemptively. He was there. He was holding her. He was not about to flee on a whim.

“I have accepted many things, Ixchel. I have accepted that your love is true. I have accepted that you view the man who hurt you so, and the man I am now, separately… I have accepted that in an utter vacuum, you are far too compassionate and forgiving than anyone could ever deserve. And I have accepted that I cannot be so _proud_ as to believe I would be the one exception to your graces.”

Solas brought his hands up to hold her face close.

“I have accepted these things,” he said firmly. “I will do my best to act accordingly.”

“I know it’s hard,” she agreed under her breath. “I know. I know.”

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, across a scar. “If I reflect on our journey, I can see how it was not always so easy for you. I will try to remember that when my heart struggles to accept these things…that doesn’t mean I have failed. And it doesn’t mean they are wrong.”

She bit down on her lip harder. It was so difficult to contain herself in that moment, because each admission was a gift whose value to her he could barely begin to understand—yet, somehow, for as small of a glimpse as she had given him…it seemed that he _did_ understand. Somehow, she felt that he knew exactly how important it was for her to hear this from him, for him to articulate his attempts to accept. That in telling her that he was _trying,_ he was giving her a victory of a kind.

Ixchel blinked rapidly and burrowed a little closer to him. It seemed he still had not said what troubled him; he continued to stroke at her cheek, perhaps with more pressure now as his concern mounted.

“There are so many more important things you must do for the world, rather than satisfy my curiosity. But… I would know you, Ixchel. All of you.”

“You will,” Ixchel promised. That only seemed to make it more difficult for him to speak; his brows had drawn close with anxiety at what he was about to say. She sighed and brought their foreheads together. “What is it?” she asked.

“We could do it now,” he said.

She shrugged slowly. “Alright?”

“It…just would not be _…fair.”_

“I…don’t mind if you don’t want to talk about your past, Solas,” she said. “I told you that already.”

“I do not mean answering questions,” he said cautiously. “I don’t even speak of storytelling, or sharing a few memories conjured in the Fade… You are more capable than you should be, in the Fade, but that does not mean you are practiced enough to do what I speak of in return. Perhaps no one born of the waking world would be able to.”

“Solas, _what_ are you _talking_ about?” she asked.

“The crystalline moment—the awareness you have sensed, here, and in the Fade…” He closed his eyes, and that seemed to help. “I could inhabit you, just for the length of a dream, and I could know what it is to be you, my love. All at once. But you cannot do the same in return, and thus it would never be equal.”

Ixchel was quiet as she shifted his his arms, and she slipped one of her own under his to hold him around the ribs. She ran her hand up and down his back as she considered it. “Would I have to remember…all of it…again?” she wondered.

“Yes,” he said. “That is somewhat the point, and particularly why…even if you were to try… I could never _allow_ you to share in my experiences that way…”

“Because you would remember the Evanuris,” she mused.

“Correct,” he said quietly.

“It seems very useful, and I am terrified of it,” she said flatly. “Both of reliving those moments…and for having you _see_ them. I don’t think either of us are ready for that.” Ixchel gave him a squeeze. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t start. But all at _once…_ My heart couldn’t take it.”

He nodded, brushing his nose up and down her cheek alongside hers. She closed her eyes as his breath played across her face. “Ask me anything—telling it would be easier,” she urged him.

“Later,” he replied. “There will be time.”

He kissed her, but she pulled away. “Really?” she asked. “I don’t want to—to reject you, Solas.”

Solas tightened his grip on her and lay with his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, breathing more easily now that he had spoken his mind. “It is a new dance, _arasha,_ and we are learning the steps. That is not a direction I will lead you in now, and I am content with it. As long as it is an informed choice, I am satisfied.”

She dug her fingers in to the lean muscles of his back and pulled him closer, despite the grime. She wrapped herself completely around him and held him tightly. “Thank you,” she said. “I like knowing what I’m making decisions about.”

“I owe you that, _‘ma’lath,”_ he said softly. “Now…may I kiss you?”

“Only if you bathe after,” she replied.

He chuckled and pushed her a little, until he was laying heavily on top of her, his arms looped beneath hers to pin her in place against him. The look he gave her was as deeply awake and canny as he could ever be, and as he trailed his lips up her jaw, she tried to let herself melt into trusting his words, and his eyes, and his intentions.

“You did not say how soon after,” he whispered in her ear. “Perhaps I will kiss you for a very, very long time.”

“Hmm, is that a promise, _‘ma’lath?”_

It turned out that yes, it was.

Ixchel had already lost all concept of time, after being in and out of the Fade and sleeping so long upon their return to Skyhold. It could have been another year that Solas kept her on the chaise, pinned beneath him as he kissed her to his satisfaction. When she seemed sufficiently kiss-drunk, he undid the laces of her shirt and showered her body with kisses too, until she was boneless and warm and content beneath him. At the very moment that she felt her arousal climbing to a point where she might consider of acting upon it, he trailed a hand slowly up her body to cup her cheek in a chaste gesture.

“I think I am satisfied,” he said, and his voice contained a decidedly _unchaste_ note.

For as deliciously relaxed as she felt, the promise of his departure undid all of that with her surprise. She sat up quickly to give him a dark look.

He smirked, far too self-satisfied indeed.

She bit her tongue to keep herself from sending him to the Void. Instead, she tipped her chin up to kiss him, while she slid her hand down the line of his body to find the hard length of him in his leggings. “How about you go bathe,” she murmured against his mouth, “and then we can see how satisfied you really are?”

Solas gave her one last searing kiss. “As you wish,” he said. “I think I will obtain food as well.”

Ixchel stared at him. “I haven’t eaten in _days,”_ she realized.

He chuckled. “There are so many hungers in you, quick child,” he teased. He unfolded himself slowly from on top of her. “Will you rest?”

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "No," she said. "I should go talk to Leliana."

"I'll pretend as though I had not heard that," he replied, and he tugged on her hand to lead her to bed. "You should oversleep as much as you can. You do not know how long you may have to be idle."

Ixchel supposed he was right, and she stood slowly. He held her hand a moment longer. "I might check on Lady Nightingale for you, before I return?"

Ixchel looked up at him and found him giving her a soft look of concern. She stood on her tip toes to kiss him, and he stooped obligingly to let her reach. "I would love you forever," she told him gratefully.

He was slow to open his eyes when she sank back on her heels. "Forever is a long time,” he murmured. Before she had a chance to address _that_ heady topic, he drew away from her. "I won't be long. Rest, Ixchel."

She nodded and went back to bed as he left for the door. She was groggy from her interrupted nap and the sweet haze he had induced in her, so she tumbled back into bed and fell asleep quickly.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke when Solas closed the door behind him, and she rolled over on to her side to watch him come up the stairs. He carried a tray piled with food that her eyes zeroed in on.

Solas grinned at her as she launched out of bed and went to meet him at the low table between the chaise and the couch. She sat on the floor and took the plates he handed her and set them out.

When he was done, he reached into his vest and withdrew several pieces of correspondence. She held them in front of her with a frown while he folded his long, lanky frame down across from her. But _that_ would not do, so she crawled around to his side and squeezed herself into the spot next to him, so that their shoulders jostled each other whenever they moved. He laughed shortly at her and pressed a kiss to her temple. "You have not had enough of me yet?" he teased.

"Find myself wanting more and more," she said, but she had turned her attention to the documents in her hand.

Letters had been sent to prominent scholars to pique their interest about the ancient Tevinter laboratory and the artifacts and documents the Inquisition had collected therein. Josephine had already received one response and expected many more from academics interested in collaborating on the analysis of their discoveries. Alexius had also been shown some of the documents and was making headway on translating and distilling their information.

She set those notes aside and picked up a troubling letter from the Prince of Starkhaven.

_Inquisitor—_

_It is thanks to your intercedence that the worst of the mage rebellion is now past and that civil discussions about their treatment and the safety of the public can prevail. However, the mage who started it all, who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall and murdered Grand Cleric Elthina and dozens of the innocent faithful, is still at large. The fanatic Anders must be brought to justice._

_Though he may no longer be in the city, it is still home to many of his known associates. After our conversation in Halamshiral, I resolved to use the resources of Starkhaven to annex Kirkwall. Mage, Templar, and civilian tensions remain high, and I believe that by intervening in this way I might serve as a mediator from a position of leadership among them all._

_But Starkhaven's annexation of this notoriously troubled city has not proceeded as planned. The city's resistance opposes me. They forget that I do this for the good of the city and all the Free Marches._

_As a staunch ally of the Inquisition, I entreat support for this endeavor, that Kirkwall may be brought under control before more innocents are harmed._

_Sebastian Vael_

Ixchel pressed her fingers into her eyes and let loose a long breath. She handed the letter to Solas in exchange for a cheese pastry, which she inhaled while Solas read the letter.

"I confess, I have not finished reading Varric's book," Solas said. "Is this Anders truly a terrorist?"

Ixchel shrugged ambiguously, then thought for a moment and, sighing, nodded. "He blew up a Chantry," she said. "It set fire to the city… Hundreds of people died, for a statement. If Empress Celene is a terrorist, I must consider Anders one, too."

"Ah, but Celene has not inspired such an invasion as this." Solas set the letter down.

"Celene is not a mage, let alone a _possessed_ mage," Ixchel muttered. She poured herself a glass of water, then filled Solas's cup. "I haven't pressed Varric or Fenris about it, and I certainly didn't ask Hawke. But Anders was supposedly possessed by a Spirit of Justice who had been corrupted by his own anger at the treatment of mages in Kirkwall, and, I suspect became something more like Vengeance." She leaned against Solas's shoulder dejectedly. "I...don't know what to do about things like that, Solas."

"Murder of innocents is a crime," he said.

"Yes, but are _both_ Anders and the Spirit to blame? Is it one or the other? Is possession like that wrong? Is it possession or...or...cohabitation? Or...?" She sighed in frustration. "I already suspected this might happen, so I had Cullen help Aveline prepare for an invasion. I don’t know why Sebastian thought it’d help—it'll alienate the very population he wants to listen to him. But that makes me think it's less about mages and Templars and more about _Anders.”_

Solas handed her some fruit.

"But in the long term, especially if Cassandra becomes Divine, I should start thinking about these things. Mages are dangerous the same as people with axes are dangerous, but usually when someone grabs an axe you know it's that person who's trying to kill you and not some separate entity who may or may not be controlling someone else's body." She paused. "And just because someone became a puppet, does that mean they're evil or weak or deserve death or Tranquility?"

Solas did not interject, so Ixchel moved on to her next letter. It was a short one: the last word from Wycome was that Josephine's human diplomat had arrived and would be reporting back soon.

She set that aside and leaned her elbow against the table as she took a deep drink of water. Her eyes were focused unseeingly on a small bread bun, which Solas then picked up and offered to her. She blinked up at him first in confusion, then in melting appreciation. She took the bun. "Thank you," she said.

He smiled a little. They continued eating in silence.

She found that she did not have the largest appetite, and she finished eating rather quickly. She remained with her cheek supported on her palm, leaning on the table and watching him pick at the food with his elegant fingers.

“I don’t know the path forward,” she said softly. “But somehow… I’m not afraid. And _that_ frightens me.”

Solas’s lips twitched. “I know that there are darker paths than the one we are on,” he said, and he leaned back to regard her with gentle appreciation. “And you are not alone on it.”

She took his hand. “We’ll keep each other humble.”

Solas grinned at that. He laced their fingers more tightly together. “You may try.”


	87. Chapter 108**

"Confidence and caution are not mutually exclusive," Solas said. "Certainly, caution should not preclude a sense of relief, or victory. The confrontation at Adamant was one of your greatest fears, or perhaps the summation of many of them. And you undoubtedly emerged victorious."

Ixchel sighed and nodded, her cheek still propped on her hand. "In comparison, sure... I had lost most of the Orlesian Wardens, lost a third of my own soldiers, lost Hawke, and..." She shook her head. "It felt like I had lost all my friends. Varric. The Commander. My soldiers. Cassandra... And this time I knew that if I fell into the Fade, there was no way I'd escape without the Nightmare telling my companions the truth. That was before it even took my memories." She gritted her teeth. "So...a fear and a regret."

He tightened his grip on her free hand. "So much of what you led us to had simply seemed so fortuitous, it is difficult to imagine the untold dangers of uncovering this plot too late..."

"Or not understanding its implications until I was standing in front of Clarel right after she sacrificed the newest recruits?" She fixed Solas with a deeply weary stare. "Now my greatest fear is finding myself there, again, on the edge of a new abyss I never saw on the approach... Because for all the wisdom I may I have gained over the years, I don't know everything."

Solas returned her stare measure for measure. For a long moment they gazed at one another with deep understanding. Then he tilted his head. "What would help you find solace?" he asked. "What would help you release the burden of these regrets that will no longer serve you?"

"I can't decide if I want to stay locked in here for a week, or fly across the length of Thedas twice over to show you all the things we can uncover," Ixchel said.

Solas raised a single eyebrow at her.

"Tempting," he mused. "...But..."

Ixchel had reflexes like lightning. She had to, for all the dragons and Ben-Hassrath and Sentinels she'd fought. And Solas, as powerful as he had grown over the months since they began this journey together again, as lithe and athletic as he was beneath the wilting hedge mage facade, was out of practice. When he pounced, Ixchel was already rolling out of reach.

She laughed at him and scrambled away. He sprang to his feet and gave chase after the hem of her shirt--the only thing she was wearing, since she'd spent most of the day in bed. Though her rooms had always felt so large, suddenly, now that she was pursued, they felt dangerously small.

Ixchel dove around her desk, leaped over armchairs, rolled over her bed as the Dread Wolf chased her. He finally caught her as she tried to scurry up the ladder into the loft.

His hand appeared tight on her calf to catch her, and she shouted with giddy laughter.

Ixchel loosened her grip on the ladder, ready to drop back down, but with his other hand on the back of her thigh, Solas pushed her back.

Her breath caught in her throat as she tightened her grip to anchor herself in place.

When he realized she had caught on to his plans, he let out a breathless chuckle and trailed his hands appreciatively up along the outside of her legs. "This is a new view," he observed as casually as though they were discussing the river valley from her balcony. "You are so small, I never thought to appreciate your legs."

Ixchel threaded her arms through the ladder's rungs and buried her face in them. It didn't matter that he could not see how red her face was. Perhaps it made his teasing more potent that she could not see him while he spoke.

Solas's hands swept up beneath the hem of her shirt and across her rump, then up her back.

She remained silent, ears perked and attentive to every whisper of skin against cloth. His hands traced burning paths back down her sides then around her front.

He did not have to lean far to nip at her thigh, and she jumped at the sharp sensation. His breath was hot against her skin as he laughed. "Hold on there, ' _ma'lath_ ," he murmured, so close to her skin that his lips grazed it with every syllable.

Ixchel _was_ holding on. Perhaps she was _too_ tense as she braced herself, because when he brought his hands back to spread her for him, his breath alone made her tremble. He was quiet for a moment, and she didn't know what he was doing--studying her with his eyes? Smelling her? The thought made her face burn and her skin crawl.

For all her anticipation, she wasn't prepared when his tongue left a scalding line through her folds. She clung to the ladder with all her upper body strength and hardly dared to breathe as he tasted her. It had only been a week or so since they last lay together, but it seemed like an eternity; her body still thrilled with incredulous anticipation of every move be made, and every pleasure was still a shock. His grip on her tightened and encouraged her to spread her legs further, and then he lifted one leg up to rest it on a higher rung and left her more open for his ministrations.

She made an incredulous sound in her throat, but then the change in the angle hit her--he could drink more deeply of her, suck and lathe at her clit more easily, and he was taking advantage of every such opportunity. For as much as every lick plucked at the white-hot tension in her, it was difficult to relax when she needed to stay somewhat upright.

But he was doing his utmost to challenge her _indomitable focus_ and strength of will. Her mind strayed--did he even need to breathe? In immortal days, how long was a partner expected to endure? How could she ever match him for his ardor or his stamina?

Her brain short circuited as he pulled a shudder from deep within her. Her knee nearly buckled, and that only encouraged him to pursue the same avenue with increased fervor.

Her first cry was muffled in her arm; perhaps that was why he did not relent. As her pleasure mounted precipitously toward a crest he only seemed to double down on his efforts around her clit.

Solas pulled away only when it seemed she was truly about to lose her footing. He rose up behind her and replaced his mouth with one hand while he brushed her hair aside to find her neck and ear. "I enjoyed seeing you wear the marks I gave you," he murmured. "They were gone far too quickly."

She wanted to raise her head, but something was stopping her--until he sank his long fingers up to the knuckle inside her fluttering heat. Her head dropped to the side with a quiet groan.

Solas flexed his fingers in time with the rocking of her hips as she sought deeper relief, and his wet lips found the back of her neck. She was surprised at how sensitive she was there; it made her spine arch with deep pleasure, and he pressed his chest against her back to keep her in place. With his teeth and gentle suction from his mouth he left a mark there, where none might see. She tensed, stretching up from her toes and hunching her shoulders as she fought to contain the white hot pressure that had mounted in her. There were tears at the corners of her eyes from how difficult it was to keep her grip.

Solas nipped at the tip of her ear, and she came undone.

He continued to pump his fingers slowly in time with waves of her release, pushing deeper as though he knew that's all she desperately wanted.

Her shivers abated at last, and she managed to raise her head and look back at him accusingly. "Can I--"

"No," he said devilishly. She closed her eyes for a moment as though to pray for internal fortitude, and then she opened them again and fixed him with a pointed look. He smirked and leaned in to kiss her as he withdrew his fingers.

When he pulled away, just an inch, to meet her eyes she found that his gaze burned with an untamed ferocity that could so easily consume her. But she had come to trust him so entirely--all these different faces and facets, from the demure Fade scholar to the hardened soldier to the insatiable lover and the man who had the power and knowledge to end the world.

Solas loosened his leggings and pulled himself free, already hard and flushed after tending to her for so long. He kissed her again, gently, and she immediately invited his tongue into her mouth to chase the taste of his efforts. She groaned into him as he pushed his length between her folds to spread her slick across his skin.

Solas sighed against her lips. " _Mar rodhe ir’on."_

Ixchel was fully lost to him, concentrating on holding on to the ladder and trying not to tense too much in anticipation of--

A long silent _oh_ escaped her as he pushed slowly into her. His strong thigh settled against her own as he put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, and he settled his hands on her hips to ease her back against his cock.

They opened their eyes slowly once he was seated with his hips flush to her backside. He kissed her slowly, too, with shallow kisses that sipped her breath away until he had coaxed her into leaning back almost completely into his chest.

Solas rocked his hips up, then away, in only the slightest motion and she melted completely. Ixchel's head lolled back on to his shoulder and he dropped his lips to her neck. She was completely shrouded in his warmth and scent, supported by his hands and his body, and she was certain of his love.

Solas made love to her with aching gentleness that contrasted so starkly with the playful chase and capture from--minutes? hours? before. He lay silent praise along her shoulders and neck with his lips, and to her legs and abdomen with his wide, warm hands. The long, slow approach to her climax undid the tense muscles in her back and her legs, and his sweet, adoring kisses lulled her into a focused reverie that for once was free of worry.

But not free of mischief.

"I thought the Dread Wolf was about to devour me," she teased under her breath.

That was either the exactly right, or exactly wrong thing to say.

One of Solas's hands snaked up around her front to catch her by the chin with gentle but firm fingers, and he tilted her face to kiss him. But right before their lips could meet, he snapped his hips into her sharply. She gasped, goosebumps erupting across her skin as she found herself immediately on the precipice of her orgasm--but he did not move again until the moment had passed.

"I _have_ been," he told her in a dark whisper. He withdrew nearly to the tip of his cock, and then with a tight grip on her hips he slammed her back down. She bowed her head forward, mouth hanging open as shudders wracked her frame.

"When there is no competition, why would I rush to be done with this treat?" he said in her ear. His fingers were now splayed across her abdomen, at once holding her and torturing her with their proximity to where she needed his attention the most. "I may _never_ be done with you, Ixchel."

"Solas," she whispered harshly. His hand slid only slightly lower, fingertips resting just stop her mound. _"Solas..."_

"Why do you hide?" he whispered--and punctuated his question with another quick thrust. Perhaps he was increasing his pace? "You are so quiet, I wonder if I could take you wherever I wanted to, with no one any the wiser."

She panted seethingly through her teeth--there was no way that he had not felt how her inner walls reacted to _that_ prospect. He leaned into her eagerly, though his husky voice betrayed little of it. "I want to see you come in the light of day, Ixchel." Oh, he was, he _was_ picking up speed. "I want to hear you call for me--"

She lost all her breath in a rush as a first shock rocked her. She stretched away, rigid and reaching, voice lost somewhere between her lungs and her lips, maybe tabgled up somewhere with her poor, stuttering heart. But he simply shifted closer, punctuating his deliciously dark and even voice with the rhythmic motion of his hips.

"I _am_ devouring you," he said again, bowing forward to purr in her ear. "Every sound, every sight, every sensation you give me--and it only makes me, impossibly, want you more--"

Ixchel dug her nails into her arm to keep from slipping from the ladder as he began to fuck her in earnest.

A keening sound escaped through her teeth as he pounded into her. The wet sound of their bodies joining filled the small alcove where the ladder was hidden. When her muscles at last began to quake with need, she leaned forward to rest her head against her arms and gave him an oblique look out of the corner of her misty eyes.

He trailed one hand down her back, his own gaze half-lidded as he focused on where their bodies joined. His cheeks were ruddy with exertion, and the flush spread to his smooth chest, where she could see it beneath the loose collar of his shirt. He tilted his head back a little and caught her staring. His lips parted as he drove in to her again and again--

"I want you," she told him. Her eyes nearly closed as he drove into her even more relentlessly. She gave a short toss of her hair, then exhaled sharply again as he impaled her even deeper on his cock. She met his gaze. "Only you, Solas--"

Solas leaned forward and braced his hand against the wall beside her. His head bowed, focused entirely on chasing his own release as she spoke. His body drove her flat against the ladder and the wall beneath it but she arched her spine and pushed back against his cock with her hips at every thrust, skin meeting skin with loud slaps each time--

Ixchel moaned when he hit his crest and spilled within her. He shivered as he rocked into her more slowly and braced himself against her and the ladder. With every pulse of his cock, her own body rejoiced and begged impossibly for more. 

Solas caught her as her foot slipped from the ladder, and she teetered for a moment in his arms before wriggling around to face him. She took him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to her for a kiss that burned with all the relief and joy she truly felt, each made only the more potent because of the regret and caution and fear that it had weathered.

His arms seemed heavy, and his fingers weak in the aftermath of his release, but he gathered her up with hands sliding up from her waist to her ribs, and he lifted her without too much trouble. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled herself up as much as she could to deepen the kiss, though they were both gasping, chests heaving--their teeth bumped and she broke away to chase his hammering pulse along the length of his neck with her lips.

Her back hit the wall and Solas pinned her there with his arms and his body, though from how he responded to her mouth and teeth against his skin she knew she was the one with the upper hand at the moment. Ixchel gentled, and his heart began to settle, and she found her way back up to catch his lips in a kiss that was less urgent but perhaps more full of meaning. For her heart twisted in her chest as words fought to form on her tongue:

"I'm so glad to be alive," she whispered. "I love you, Solas."

Solas made a soft sound she couldn't place as being pained or pleased, but he leaned into her even more and held her tightly. She returned the embrace with as much strength as she still had in her arms and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

His breaths were labored in her ear as he buried his face in her hair. "You have spent so much of your time being afraid... My love... My hope for you is that one day you might feel safe enough to forget that."

She dug her fingers into his shoulder. He nuzzled closer to find her damp skin and kissed her cheek where he could reach it.

"Someday," he said softly again, "but I know today may not be that day."

"I wish I had anything to celebrate about the past," she whispered, "like you do. All I carry are ghosts."

Solas exhaled heavily and stepped slightly away from the wall, letting her legs drop until she stood upon her own two feet. He bent to rest his forehead on hers, eyes closed. "I will share as much as I can with you, then," he promised. "It would be good to focus on that, and not my own ghosts."

He lay a light kiss on her lips, then took a step back, pulling her by the hands back into the main apartment. "So...? Have I convinced you to spend a week locked in with me?" he teased.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "As opposed to trying to fuck me in all the ancient temples I want to show you?"

Solas shrugged demurely and tugged her toward her bed. He sat on the edge and pulled her into his lap, and when she had straddled him he wrapped his arms around her waist and fell back into bed to look up at her. "They are not mutually exclusive," he said thoughtfully. "It is more the order."

Ixchel rolled her eyes and leaned forward to rest her elbows on either side of his head, to support herself as she kissed him more. She was thoroughly drunk off of his lips, but frustratingly she was not tired in the least. "Maybe not the whole week," she said.

"Then I'd best endeavor to make sure you lose track of time," he replied. Before she could catch a glimpse of what was no doubt a wicked and playful smile, he had rolled to the side and reversed their positions.


	88. Chapter 109 Excerpt

Ixchel sat under Solas's arm, her head pillowed against his chest while he sketched. He was not quite as technically skilled at conveying the true-to-life architecture as he was at the stylized Elvhen style, but he was giving her an idea of how _Skyhold—his_ Skyhold—had once appeared. It had been a place of judgment, where the most important and consequential determinations might be carried out. This was where her wolves received only her most honored supplicants. This was where Mythal judged the other Evanuris.

"When I claimed my place apart from the Evanuris, I declared it here." His voice had taken on a softer, dreamier cadence as he conjured the image of pilgrims from earth and sky, waking and dreaming, coming to this mountaintop for justice. "And when I finally judged them as beyond hope... When I came to seal them away... I did so here."

"Is that what you see, when you walk this land in the Fade?" she asked quietly.

"Often." He continued to sketch spires and arches. He was careful, unaffected when he asked, "You say you fought a Regret that reflected my own. Was it here?"

“Yes,” Ixchel said.

He glanced at her. “ _Ir abelas, ‘ma’lath.”_

Ixchel sighed. “It was just sad,” she said. “It was your frescoes that it inhabited. All of my deeds…the gift that you had given me… It had all just made you think of all your failures…" She pressed her cheek closer to his bare skin and breathed deeply to settle herself. "Skyhold had sat empty for a year already, just me and the caretaker, and your frescoes..." She shifted a little. "I had to recruit Sutherland again to take it out. He drew it into him briefly… He thought that maybe it might have been Introspection if it had had the chance."

Solas turned his head to rest his lips against her temple. She squeezed one of her arms behind his back and rubbed her hand soothingly between his shoulder blades.

"This place has had a life far beyond me," he said after a long pause. "I would do well to remember it."

He returned to the sketch.

"Your turn, then."

Ixchel sighed and wracked her brain for what she could offer him with words alone. "I found a surface thaig to the west," she said. "A Paragon who regretted the inter-thaig wars fueled by his weaponry fled to the surface and built a massive colony. And in his tomb...was a statue of Mythal."

Solas hummed unhelpfully. "A forest once towered there."

Ixchel closed her eyes and recalled the shape of the runes on the memorials, the way they flowed in the alternating scripts of Fairel’s sons… "It was sand by the time Fairel reached the surface. But in the sand," Ixchel said, "was the Stone."

"The Children of the Stone have confounded me in this age," Solas admitted.

"For those who can't dream, they are awfully imaginative, is that it?"

"I had thought that dwarves were the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood. Undirected. Whatever skill of arms it had, gone forever. Although it might twitch to give the appearance of life, it would never dream."

Ixchel pulled away to look up at him with a hard look. He shrugged one shoulder slowly, without trying defend such a harsh view.

She still frowned at him. "The...impressions I found from Elvhenan made it seem like the Evanuris thought sundering the dwarves from the Titans was a kindness. That they were dreamless and soulless slaves."

"The Evanuris certainly weren't aware of irony," he said under his breath.

Ixchel swatted him lightly on the stomach and rolled her eyes before growing serious again. "The dwarves I've met who are connected to a Titan... I mean, I don't know anything about them except that they have powerful weapons, wear armor made of lyrium fused into their bodies...and that an Orzammar Shaper getting reconnected to the Titan will console both it, and her." Ixchel did not look away from his face. "Is that so different from back then? Or was it just a matter of perspective?"

It clearly made him uncomfortable to admit such a possibility—but he admitted it nonetheless. "Yes,” he said, “the perspective we held dictated that bodies are mere vessels for the Spirit. Without the ability to walk the Fade at all, there _could be no_ personhood."

He set down his graphite rod and met Ixchel's gaze with a slightly hesitant look. "For waking-born and bodied Elvhen... The soul could leave, or be removed from the body and leave it behind as a will-less...remnant. Beyond even the Tranquility you know. I do not know what the Children of the Stone’s own truth might have been, then."

"And the Titans themselves?"

"They are necessary for the waking world's continued existence," Solas said. "That, I know."

Ixchel considered this for a moment, then shook her head. "I absolutely don't understand."

Solas's lips were pulled into a smile before he could catch it. He set aside the mostly-completed sketch of _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ on her bedside table and began drawing on the page beneath.

"Magic as you know it today is merely the ability to bring the Fade into the waking world, and manipulate waking reality as one manipulates the dreamed Fade. Just as your mind holds the power to shape the Fade, the Titans' dreams shape the Stone—the very world.”

He tapped his graphite stick on the paper below him to draw Ixchel’s attention to his new drawing. He had put down the now-familiar iconography of two half circles with a river flowing between them; it was the same new addition he had placed between the frescoes of Therinfal and Redcliffe, downstairs in the rotunda. The way he drew them now, they seemed to more clearly represent bowls, passing liquid between them from top to bottom.

“Before the Veil, the waking and dreaming worlds were one. The Fade reflects the material, and indeed they cannot exist without one another, just as an ocean cannot exist without the shore or the ocean floor. But the magic of manipulating the Fade was the magic of imposing one’s will upon the stuff of _dreams._ Using that power to manipulate the unchanging world was…incompatible. Likewise, the Titans’ wills shape the unchanging world, but they cannot impose their will upon the Fade.”

Ixchel stared down at the drawing as she wrapped her mind about the consequences of the Veil, then. What did it mean for Mages, then…?

“It is the blood of the Titans that tunes the will that might shape a dream into the force that might shape the waking _world._ Thus, the discovery of lyrium changed our history forever. With lyrium augmenting the nearly limitless Fade magic of the strongest Elvhen, their wills could be forced upon the material world…”

Ixchel sat up and turned fully to face him, propped up on her arms. "Lyrium is pure magic," she said eagerly. "Stone magic! _Waking_ magic!" She tightened her grip on the sheets. “When we consume lyrium, we can either be the will _of the Titan_ upon the waking world, or replace it with our _own_ will!”

She smacked Solas’s thigh eagerly, and he was grinning at her. "It is not the complete understanding," he did caution. "Such an explanation does not fully answer why dwarves cannot ever work the magic of the Fade, or why Tranquil can handle lyrium without negative repercussions."

She slid forward until she was lying on her stomach beside him, and she tilted her head back to look into his eyes. "Why would the Elvhen want bodies?" she asked. "Why leave the Fade?"

Solas's grin turned into a bit more of a sour smile. "Why do any intelligent creatures seek the unknown, the wilderness?" he posed to her. "Conquest. Stimulation... Pride." He took up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. "There are many novel facets of the physical existence that an incorporeal creature might find exciting. The ability to grow one's nature is another appealing feature...beyond even such...sensual activities as what we have discovered together."

"Ah yes, sex, power, and greed," Ixchel said with a derisive snort. "I imagine it's much easier to control your slaves when they have bodies that feel pain—”

"—and can be branded with runic lyrium and thus bound mind and soul to your will? Yes." He let her hair slip through his fingers. "It is much easier to remove ink than lyrium, by the way."

"Good to know." She raised an eyebrow at him, then shook her head. "And the Blight...?"

"I fear it," he said immediately. "I do not understand it. I do not know where it comes from. I do not know why it does what it does... I know only that it has and can be weaponized, that it affects every living thing in its proximity, and it creates a connection like that of lyrium to the Titan, and dreams to the Fade... But to what will… I do not know." He shook his head. “The Void itself, perhaps.”

“It’s a different song,” Ixchel agreed.

“Ah. Yes.” Solas’s smile faded completely. “You can hear it.”

“I didn’t always, not before I came back. So…whatever it is…has something to do with whatever was done to me, or wherever I was, or…” Ixchel shrugged.

Solas set aside his implements and slouched down so that he could pull her half onto his chest. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and considered her. When he spoke, it was with resolve—as though he had decided he needed to be brave: “Is that what you want to discuss?”

Ixchel’s heart wrenched, for he had not successfully hid the pain that lay beneath that question. “I think it’s more important that I know if there’s something you want or need to know,” she said slowly. “Because I have no particular desire to bring it up, otherwise.”

Solas’s eyes flashed. “Canny,” he said in a dry tone. “I do not want to dwell on the topic, yet I can’t know if there are things I should know, unless we investigate.” He sighed. “So… Let us begin unraveling your mystery. You believe that Mythal claimed the soul of an Old God.”

“I am certain of it.” She gave him a helpless look. “No, I can’t tell you.”

He nodded, squeezing her shoulder a little. “It is alright, Ixchel… Then, you believe that I came to possess it.”

“It’s more that…I believe I have it, and I can’t think of any _other_ way that could have happened.”

“Hm.” He tilted his head, gray eyes scouring her face. “It is through the Blight that these Archdemons rise. It is through the Blight that the Darkspawn and the Wardens are compelled to seek out these dragons and infect them…”

She could feel his heart beating just a little faster as he broached the topic, and she lay her hand flat against his chest as though she could give it comfort directly.

“The Evanuris who remain are themselves Blighted. Until Corypheus and his ilk unleashed the Blight upon the waking world, they had _no_ way out of their prison in the Fade.” Solas seemed to chew the inside of his cheek, uncomfortable with his own uncertainty. “I cannot confirm that it would even be possible for them to transmit their souls beyond their prisons through the Blight…”

“Let’s not talk about what we don’t know,” she soothed. “That’s a vast and deeply terrifying topic.”

He exhaled sharply in an almost-laugh. “Yes, indeed.” He gathered her closer. “Whatever they are, whatever Mythal captured, if it _is_ within you then it is no longer in a recognizable form. I cannot know entirely unless I look more deeply than our forms will allow, but—it must have been powerful, and it must have been necessary, and all of that power was lost in making you…real again.”

Ixchel bit her lip as well. “Ah, yeah, that part.”

“Yes,” Solas said softly. “That part. You have an arm that you should not have. You are…everything I could ever want, yet more than I could ever deserve…”

“Solas, stop it.” She sat up a little.

“But it is a fact that I _will not know otherwise_ unless I become one with you,” Solas said, a pained expression twisting his face. “I must…accept that I will not know.”

“No. You must _trust,”_ she said, and did not leave any room for argument. “Trust me. I know who I am. I know who I was. I was not _made up.”_

When he was painfully silent, she sat up fully and dragged herself around to sit cross-legged beside him. “Yes, in the act of sending me back, he saddled me with the responsibility of his hopes. But my knowledge, my understanding of you—that was my own. I am as awfully _me_ as I was the day I died.” She twisted her mouth into a bitter slant. “He was cruel in many ways, but I don’t think he was so cruel that he would have left me with the shadows in my mind. Not even for authenticity’s sake. So therefore I must be _me,_ and I have seen you through my own eyes, and I have loved what I see—shaped by _my own_ will. Not his.”

“You’re right,” he said softly. “If I had the power, I would give anything to fight that beast that stalks you.”

“I know.” They held each others’ gaze for a long moment, holding hands, breathing, in the security of their agreed-upon love. But then Solas looked down at their joined hands, his eyes dark and troubled still.

Solas ran his thumb across her knuckles. Before he could speak, Ixchel pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes with a long sigh. “The Dread Wolf has never been what I see when I look at you,” she said finally. “It has always been the beast that _I_ fear stalks _you.”_

Solas nodded slowly. “In the graveyard of our fears… Our markers were broken, leaning upon one another…”

Ixchel held her breath.

“They both spoke to the same fear, Ixchel,” he said. He raised his other hand to her cheek and brushed his thumb along the line of the vallaslin there, broken by scars new and old. “But I am He Who Hunts Alone no longer, and I will not allow the lying shadows in your mind lead you down paths I cannot follow. As long as you will have me, I am yours.“


	89. Chapter 110 Excerpts

Cassandra set down her document and turned to face Ixchel more fully. A shy smile played on her lips. “Ixchel… Might I ask… Did you always love Solas?”

Ixchel fixed her with a wary look. “No,” she said. “He was…a mentor, and a friend, and I was very young.”

Cassandra blushed. “Oh, yes. That’s right.” She drew a sharp breath, eyes widening. “I have often thought you might be too young as it is now. I cannot imagine the burden…”

“Yes.” The Inquisitor bit her lip and decided that telling Cassandra a love story was in fact the better alternative to going down the depressing rabbit hole of how terrible it was to be a teenage Inquisitor. “But once I realized I was back again… I tried to remind myself that none of you were the people I had known. Not yet. And by thinking of you as separate people, I found myself drawn to you, and to Solas, and to Varric, and Dorian all over again.” She tried to smile at Cassandra, whose eyes shone with rapt interest. “Perhaps it was a little unfair. There were some things I could teach Solas by virtue of my prior experience now, that we had discovered together a long time ago.”

“You think that that is what ensnared him?” Cassandra asked, shocked. “History? Discovery?”

Ixchel laughed a little. “Well, he is a scholar after all! It was a lot easier to earn his respect. The rest…” Ixchel shrugged and smiled a little more easily. “He still took some convincing.”

“Really? It has always seemed that you understood one another. That you were…kindred spirits, of some kind. I know less about him than I do about you, of course. But that night in the Emprise…”

“We all are,” Ixchel offered. “Kindred spirits, I mean. Shaped by the same duties, united by the same hopes… I love all of you, so much. And I’m so glad I get to be alive to tell you that.”

“Being Inquisitor has brought you good things,” Cassandra said. “Many good things. But only a few have been by your choice. Take what happiness you can from those, and do not let them go. And those of us who care for you will not let you cast them aside in the moments where you might not see clearly.”

She squeezed Cassandra’s hand. “I am very lucky,” she agreed. They held hands for a moment longer, and then Ixchel laughed a little. “I did promise to return with food, though. I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Cassandra sighed wistfully. “Yes, rest and enjoy yourself while you can, Inquisitor. You deserve it.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel and Solas took the long way back to her quarters; after saying goodnight to Cole upstairs in the tavern, they walked across the battlements and made their way to the gardens. It was silent and empty in the dark, and Ixchel stopped in the middle to look up at the stars. As she did, she noticed something else in the sky above her.

“The trees are blooming?” She hardly believed her eyes. “We haven’t been away _that_ long, right? It’s midwinter!”

Solas looked up at where she was staring and made a soft, surprised sound as well. He drew closer and wrapped her in his arms as they looked up at the buds swaying in the gentle breeze. “It _is_ midwinter,” he said. “But the Veil is thin here.”

She twisted a little bit to tilt her head back further and meet his gaze. “So what have you been dreaming of, then?”

Solas’s lips eased into what Ixchel might have even called a shy smile. He turned his head to hide it. “You think I can bring spring to Skyhold?”

“Of course,” she said. “You walk both worlds, and you leave them ever changed in your wake, _‘ma’lath.”_

He chuckled. “What would the Dalish think of the Dread Wolf bringing flowers where he walks?”

Ixchel turned in his arms and raised her hands to his face to guide him back. He struggled to stifle his smile, but she had supposed correctly—he _did_ seem shy at this revelation. She brushed her thumbs across his cheeks and smiled back at him.

“Tell me it means you’re happy,” she said in a whisper.

Solas bowed his head so their noses brushed. She could count the freckles across the bridge of his nose and beneath his eyes. She could see the faint lines that permanently marked his face, remnants of long periods of deep thought and concern. But she could also see the traces of laughter at the corners of his eyes, and the dimple in his cheek where his face had grown accustomed to his smile.

“Despite the secrets,” she said. “Despite the blood… Despite the doubt… Despite the _weight_ of everything…”

“It does not _have_ to be ‘despite,’” Solas replied. He laced his fingers neatly in the small of her back and fixed his eyes on hers. “You walk your paths with open eyes, and you have shown love and care for the world not _‘despite’_ the darkness you see in it but including it. Would you be so surprised to inspire the same in others?”

Ixchel felt her eyes burn despite the widening smile on her face.

“Though the path forward is unknown—to you, and to me… I find myself with more hope for the future than I have felt in a long, long time, Ixchel. So yes,” he whispered against her lips. “I am happy.”

He kissed her deeply, unhurriedly, and Ixchel treasured every breath and every heartbeat that passed while he kissed her; with every moment that passed, she told herself again and again and again: _in elgar sa vir mana / in tu setheneran din emma na_.

Ixchel could not honestly tell if she had been right to place such deep hopes on a success at Adamant. It had nearly broken her when things did not go according to plan; she had been nearly convinced of the hopelessness of their fight, and of her future with Solas, or with any of her friends. Yet now that it had passed—she was finally beginning to feel the many burdens she had carried for so long slip off of her shoulders. For all their talk of the shadows that haunted her mind, Cole was right: she felt so _bright._

After some time to rest, she could truly begin to appreciate what she had accomplished. The truth was out, and there was no equivocating: In her long battle against despair, against her own hopelessness and doubts—she had _won._ Perhaps not forever. But it was _real,_ and Cassandra was right, too. Out of this victory, she could fashion armor for her heart. She had built a foundation upon which she could learn to trust again.

Ixchel was filled with an inexorable and terrifying sense of awe at herself, at Solas, and at the road to come. It tore at her heart and made her ribs ache, yet made her feel like she could fly if she tried. As Solas kissed her there, beneath the flowering trees and starlight, Ixchel wondered if what she truly felt was her own fragile hopes blossoming into tentative _belief_ at last.


	90. Chapter 111 Excerpt

Dorian’s chest lurched as he stifled a sob. “Can’t I?”

“Not if it looks like this,” she said, gesturing at his current state. He blubbered a little into his water but drank it dutifully and accepted another refill. “And it doesn’t have to be _now,_ Dor. There’s nothing you could learn tonight that would stop the Veil from coming apart tomorrow. That’s now how magic works.”

“That’s what everyone says about experimental magics, until suddenly, that _is_ how magic works.” He groaned a little. “For so long, my desire to pursue this kind of magic was out of spite. Breaking the rules came so easily, and now—now that I’m actually _trying to understand_ this, for the good of the world… It just isn’t clicking.”

“Spite has gotten us all into enough messes,” Solas said. “Ixchel is correct. With methodical study, we can make the assessments you speak of, Dorian, and we can act upon whatever knowledge we gain.”

Ixchel patted Dorian’s head. “Also, Dor—and don’t take this as just nepotism…but Solas knows _a lot_ about the Veil.”

Solas gave her a curious look, but her eyes were on Dorian, who had dropped his gaze to his lap.

“It’s my mess,” he said again. “It’s my job to fix Tevinter. It’s my job to put an end to the corruption…the slavery… And whatever’s going to happen because I brought you back to _life…_ That’s my job, too.”

Solas’s jaw dropped. “Dorian—how you arrived at such a conclusion—! That does not mean you must do it _singlehandedly!_ Your responsibility, yes, is to try to change these things, now that you have recognized your part in them…but you cannot _hope_ to do it alone.”

Ixchel smoothed back Dorian’s hair. “Gently,” she said to the room at large. With her eyes she tried to remind Solas that, until recently, he had been on much the same path. “Now, like I said, I’ve been alarmed about the consequences of what brought me back, since I realized I was brought back.”

She wiggled the fingers on her hand that held the Anchor illustratively.

“We’ll do what we can to lay the foundation of such inquiries now, so that we can focus on them fully after we deal with Corypheus—the most immediate threat to the world. But now is not the time for haphazard experimentation or frantic study or ostracizing all the scholars in our tower.” She smirked a little at Dorian’s beleaguered scoff, and then she squeezed in beside him on the couch and put her arm around his shoulder. “And I think there’s something to be said about our need for control in these situations. I just spent most of this past year clawing at the world to control how Adamant would turn out—’til my fingers bled, really—and look where it got me: a super heroic _meltdown_ the moment things went off course.”

Ixchel squeezed Dorian. “No offense, but this meltdown is _slightly_ less heroic.”

“Hey now,” he whined.

Solas chuckled. “My friends,” he said in, as Ixchel had requested, a more gentle tone, “I believe it is now apparent that we three see ourselves as…agents, in ways that others may not be. We recognize the responsibility we have, given such a position. And yes—we each are agents in separate ways, with somewhat differing goals: Ixchel in exhorting mortals to rise to their better virtues and hold the unjust accountable; you in your magical prowess and willingness to break from tradition; myself in the…depth of experience I have to share, from my travels.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow down at his lap, and Ixchel nudged him a little.

Solas continued, leaning forward. “Our paths may seem to lead to disparate destinations…but there is no inherent reason they should. As you said yourself, Ixchel. We see. We care. Our duties cannot be set aside…but that does not mean that duty is all we must cling to.”

He reached across and laid a hand on Dorian’s forearm. The Tevinter mage looked up at him with wet eyes, and the expression he wore was one of almost disbelief.

But Solas inclined his head, jaw set, and his lips pulled into a firm, close-mouthed smile. “We can walk these paths together,” he assured Dorian. “Spite and solitude have not served us well in the past. And I would not see a friend walk the _din’an’shiral_ if he had another option.”

Dorian sucked his lower lip between his teeth at the admission, and he blinked rapidly at Solas, then looked away up at the ceiling. His throat bobbed as he swallowed words and tears. And then he nodded.

Ixchel refilled his glass in silence, and then wrapped both her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

Solas met her eyes, and she knew that he meant every word he had said.


	91. Chapter 112 Excerpts

Dorian tried to drunkenly discuss the composition of the Veil with Solas for quite some time, to Solas's great amusement, but eventually his waning energy sagged and the Tevinter mage nodded off on the couch. Ixchel tucked him in with a thick quilt and a better pillow and left the pit her of water nearby for him, then left him in peace. Solas came with her to bring their belongings down in preparation for their journey to Redcliffe.

"Hey," Ixchel said before they entered the great hall.

Solas turned, her armor slung over his shoulder. "Yes, _arasha?"_

The young Inquisitor looked up at him for a long moment in silence. It was difficult to articulate how she felt in that moment. She had put the past to rest in so many ways. She had seen a new day dawn for herself and the people she loved. And there was just so much _more_ : it seemed he had doubled down on his commitment to her, to a more healthy hope for the world, in the wake of her revelation. All her worst fears had come to pass, but the aftermath, perhaps, had left the foundation of their relationship even more fertile.

There was so much she wanted to say, to thank him for.

"I love you," she said helplessly.

With his one free hand, Solas took her chin and lifted it. His silver eyes were full of understanding as he took in the sight of her in turn. "I know," he said, voice weighted with just as much feeling as her own. "I know there is so much you have overcome that I do not yet know of. But I have seen the change, and I am happy for you." He swept his thumb across her chin. "Even so, you should rest more."

She scoffed.

"I know." He chuckled and bent to kiss her once, lingeringly, before he opened the door and let her lead the way into the hall.

-:-:-:-:-

"Ixchel, you will never be done with the work that requires your attention until you _decide_ you are done," Solas said as he entered the war room.

She was seated on the ground in a corner with papers strewn out all around her. If she were being honest, she had gotten a little lost in all the connecting threads of her correspondence and had been forced to lay it all out in groups on the ground to keep track of the messages she was sending, the resources she had and hadn't allocated, and who she needed to put in contact with whom...

Ixchel sighed. He was right, of course. "I'll be done," she promised, and began tidying up. He crouched down to help her roll up several scrolls and tie them securely or set them aside for later sorting.

While she finished sorting, Solas straightened back up and went to the war table to look over their troop movements, their strongholds, and their resources. He exhaled slowly as he took it all in. "You have grown quite the Inquisiton," he mused.

"We," she said absently. "And it's still not much compared to what it once was."

Her hands slowed as her mind strayed back to a dark train of thought: she had given that all away and hobbled herself for the fight against the end of the world. How stupid had she been to disband the Inquisition even after she had learned of Solas's plans...?

No. She had been backed in to a corner by Orlais and Ferelden. But more than that, she had been angry and upset and tired. She hadn't wanted to be Thedas' hope anymore. It wasn't her fault that she was still expected to save the world without any of the resources...

Ixchel stood and brought her documents over to the table. She slid her arm beneath Solas's and around his back and sighed. "You check on Dorian?"

"Still sleeping on your couch," he said.

She snorted. "It's--" she craned her neck to look over her shoulder at the dark windows "--it's late!"

"Don't underestimate how much energy it takes to grapple with such existential questions," Solas teased as they made their way to the door. "Or how much inner fortitude it requires to survive...whatever it is he drank."

Ixchel shook her head. "I'll bring him down," she said. "Do you have more to do, _da'fen?"_

"No. I accomplished all I set out to do today and then some," he replied. "I completed another panel in the rotunda."

"Oh? That's wonderful."

He squeezed her shoulder. "I... It still surprises me to know that such a gift was received so well," he said quietly.

She stopped walking and gave him a thoughtful look. He gazed down at her in turn through half-lidded eyes.

Ixchel raised the hand that held the Anchor to his chest and covered his heart. Then, she pushed him slightly.

He let her guide him until his back was against the door to the war room. She held him there with her arm extended, and just her fingertips against his chest to keep him still, and she considered the wolf jawbone that hung there.

"You are a talented artist, and that alone is a gift--to see your skill on display," she said. "Growing up surrounded by ruined portrayals of my ancestors and pale attempts to mimic the tradition...of _course_ I could appreciate the value of the gift. But to see my own actions through your lens... It's a window into your heart that, if things had gone differently, might have been my only connection... And even though we are closer now... I find I only treasure it more."

She let her palm lie flat over his heart again. "Do you remember what I said to you, in the Fade, Solas?"

"Every word," he replied solemnly.

"Good," she said. "I meant them."

She stood on her tip toes to kiss him, and even though he had to have expected it, even though they had come so far since their first acknowledgement of what lay between them, a startled breath still escaped him.

Ixchel pressed him back into the door so she could kiss him more securely, impress upon him how deeply she meant what she had said to him. His heart under her hand raced as he let her kiss him.

When she pulled away, he was slow to open his eyes.

"You're beautiful, and you create beauty," she reminded him. "In all the worlds you tread."

"So do you," he murmured. "I do my best to capture it. In paint, and in life."

"Sweet talker," she accused fondly. "Let's go to bed."


	92. Chapter 113 Excerpts

“Again, Champion?”

Ixchel nodded, and Solas swung his staff down toward her. She tried not to raise her head, or her arms, but focused on the will to block the blow. It was hard to access that crystalline moment of focus when a weapon was coming straight toward her face; she had so little time to extend her mind beyond her body, let alone force the fabric of reality into the shape she desired it with such precision. But the air between her head and the piece of wood coming toward her shimmered and hardened, and the arc of his attack slowed—but did not stop. Solas caught himself a moment before hitting her head.

“Nearly there,” he said with a pleased smile. She sighed and nodded. “You are becoming quite adept at this.”

“ _Harellan_ ,” she replied with a scowl.

He twirled his staff. “I mean it. You have only recently gained access to this magical potential, yet you have a firm control over it and your emotions. That alone is a feat that young mages take years to master. More than that, you can dream lucidly in the Fade, and shape it to your will. Such skill is _more_ than rare in this age… And on top of all of that—it is no small feat to slow a blow as it comes toward you, Ixchel. A _localized_ planar manifestation of force and will?” Solas chuckled. “That is fine control. It merely lacks sticking power, and I’m certain you will come to that sooner rather than later.”

“In the Fade,” she asserted.

“When we are on the road, we will see how it translates,” he promised. “You may be the first of your kind, my love. You need not be an expert right away; you are _already_ a prodigy.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you think,” she grumbled. “Again.”

“Very well.”

Practicing like that all night long had its drawbacks. Though her mind was in the Fade, she had not _rested,_ and she was light-headed and absent-minded in the waking world as a consequence. She could only nod in agreement when Solas suggested they do shorter bouts of training and that she learn to let herself dream restfully when they weren’t working. Such a feat was also easier said than done, after becoming so accustomed to spending her dreaming hours consciously with her lover in the Fade, _releasing_ that control to her subconscious was more difficult than it once had been.

“All things in due time,” Solas soothed as they saddled their mounts.

-:-:-:-:-

When Solas returned, he retreated swiftly to Ixchel’s side and came to huddle under a thick cover with her. She sniffled and smirched a bit as he slipped his cold hands beneath her jacket to find her heated skin. “Shouldn’t you be a little more…adapted to the cold?” she teased.

He dug his fingers into the soft skin of her sides and she shrieked, tickled. “If you hadn’t noticed, I have _far_ less fur than I once did,” he muttered and buried his face in her ruff. She pulled the cover tighter around them and leaned her cheek onto his head. “Let us go somewhere the Veil is thinner… I much prefer the spring.”

Ixchel laughed at that. “What do you think of that? Just traveling around to places the Veil is thin… Seeking out more ruins to explore… Wandering with me, my love, to learn and preserve and bring the past to light…?”

Solas nuzzled closer. “Once the world remembers it is not meant to fall apart, perhaps,” he said into her shoulder.

Her laughter faded, but her smile did not. She could see the seam of the Breach from where they camped, and she stared at it contemplatively. “Eventually, it will,” she mused. “It must.”

Later, as they cuddled close together to stay warm as they slept, Ixchel whispered, “I think it's time I show you something."

Solas’s eyes gleamed in the darkness beneath their blankets. “Alright,” he replied, so softly that his voice was merely a breath.

She buried her face in his chest and breathed deeply, and soon she was asleep.

Ixchel shaped the Fade around her as she waited for Solas. It was just easier to bring a memory to life if she had the surroundings to play off of; otherwise, remembering every detail as it occurred took more concentration than she could maintain.

The winds howled as they had that night. The snow was thick and smooth, seemingly untouched by mortal feet.

Solas joined her, and she shrouded the both of them in the thickest Avvar furs she could dream of. He stood with his arms behind his back and watched the scene dutifully, as though he knew how hard she had to concentrate on maintaining a disembodied narrative like this.

In the distance, a small figure trudged through the snow. They watched her draw closer and Ixchel saw that the Spirits remembered her as being crusted with ice, lips blue with cold and eyes frozen shut with tears. Her hands were wedged beneath her armor to protect them from the wind, but abruptly she removed them and held them to her lips. Though she remained at a distance, her voice was carried on the wind as she begged Dorian to listen and spoke the command to activate the talking crystal.

Of course, it had remained silent, and she had screamed hopelessly into the wind before she lurched ominously. She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

And even though they were looking-on, Ixchel could feel that same cold in her now. She might never forget it; it rivaled the frigid vortex that followed Hakkon Wintersbreath, and she had often found herself dreaming of _that_ frozen nightmare.

Ixchel felt the visceral nausea of realizing that her skin felt dead and hard, like a corpse’s. She remembered the overwhelming self-loathing of accepting her fate as deserved and overdue, for that’s what she had been for so long already: a walking corpse.

Solas drew in a sharp breath beside her, and she knew he felt the shape of her thoughts, too.

Good.

And then the Spirits showed her what came next. One moment, Ixchel knelt, screaming and sobbing into her hands. The next, a gust of wind blew a slurry of snow across her back—and in its wake, stepped _Asha’bellanar._

The Witch stood and watched in silence for longer than Ixchel perhaps had realized. Ixchel, the Dreamer, walked around the scene to get a better look. She was surprised to find that Flemeth looked upon her sadly. She had expected the Witch to tilt her head and give her the disapproving, challenging look that she had so often given Morrigan. Instead, Flemeth’s head bowed forward ever-so-slightly, and her golden eyes were creased with age that so rarely made itself known on her face. The lines of her mouth dug deep and downward as she gazed upon Ixchel.

But when her lips moved, her voice held no trace of the sorrow in her eyes. Her words were a decree, a claim, a challenge, and they were projected directly into Ixchel’s ear on the wind:

"That is _not_ what you are," said Flemeth, said Mythal. "That is not what you are, child of Elvhenan, child of mine. That is not what you are, and that is not what you will be!"

The frozen Inquisitor looked up and found the golden eyes of _Asha’bellanar_ looming ahead in the darkness.

"Rise, Champion," she called to Ixchel. "You will not abandon your People yet."

Ixchel stared at her with a desperate, hopeless look that clearly begged for mercy.

But Mythal did not give it. Now her expression had hardened. Now she raised her chin and cut her eyes and commanded Ixchel: “Rise. _Mala suledin nadas!”_

And even as Ixchel’s eyes welled with hot, angry tears, she struggled to stand as she had been commanded. She groaned in pain as she forced her knees to bend, then straighten, to raise herself out of the snow.

And as Ixchel struggled, Flemeth watched, untouched by the cold, and she raised her chin in triumph. She turned just before Ixchel could raise her head, and a proud smirk twisted her wine-red lips.

Before Flemeth vanished back into snow and wind, Ixchel’s shaky, broken voice picked up:

_“Lath sulevin,_   
_lath araval ena_   
_arla ven tu vir mahvir._   
_Melana ‘nehn_   
_enasal ir sa lethalin.”_

And in the gust of wind that carried Flemeth away, Ixchel heard wolves begin to howl.

Another wild flurry of snow rushed across the dreamscape, and the Spirits who had reenacted the scene vanished, freed from their requested task. Ixchel shivered and hugged herself and looked up at Solas.

He tucked her under his arm reflexively.

“Amarok knew that song. He spoke that verse to me, before we left him to the Nightmare,” she told him. “Amarok came to me in a dream of Din’an Hanin, before we ever went there, and he told me I had named myself and that I had been named, under a statue of Mythal. And a tree grew where I had stood. And after I saved Talim from that Revenant…”

“A tree grew,” he said quietly. “That was where we found you.”

The wind had ceased, and silence fell all around them. The air was crisp and cold.

Solas was warm.

“I still do not believe you are under a geas,” he said. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm thoughtfully. “Amarok was intensely shaped by your Regrets. He _was_ connected to you, in a way. Perhaps he knew it was your will and desire to protect that Dalish clan, and he compelled you to act. Such a bond might even bypass the herbs that disconnected you from the Fade.”

Ixchel nodded slowly. “If Spirits can break Tranquility, then that would make sense,” she supposed. She chewed her lip for a moment, then looked down at her feet, simultaneously leaning closer into Solas’s side. “That entire clan was going to get massacred by Red Templars at Din’an Hanin.”

“You were remarkably insistent when you spoke to them. I understand why. It was your Regret, then, that guided you.”

“You’re relieved,” she guessed. _Me too_. If the strange trance she had been in was due to Amarok’s connection to her, and not Mythal’s, then Kieran and Morrigan were still—probably—safe.

“How could I not be?” he asked with a soft, rhetorical laugh. “I am relieved that you are not under Mythal’s geas. I would not know what to do to free you… You do not wear her vallaslin…”

“And I did not drink of the Well of Sorrows.” Ixchel pulled away slightly and narrowed her eyes at the scene, thinking that she might show him that fateful moment. But before the snow could melt away into golden tiles, Solas stopped her. He turned her bodily to face him, incredulous.

“You know of _Vir’abelasan,”_ he said.

“A friend of mine took it on save it from Corypheus, and she became an occasional slave to Mythal. But it also helped us defeat the red lyrium dragon.”

His silver eyes searched hers from beneath the shadow of his hood, and for a moment it seemed he might tip forward and fall right into her. She tensed, but he never moved. _“Ixchel,”_ he breathed, “the Well contains not only the wills of Mythal’s priests, but their Spirits, bound to her will. Instead of entering _uthenera,_ her priests would voluntarily enter eternal service to her.”

Solas stared at her. She realized suddenly it was probably very good that she didn’t show him Morrigan drinking from the Well of Sorrows, because she still did not want to draw his intense attention to Kieran. It was difficult enough for her to withstand it when it was directed fully upon her as it was now.

She wrapped her hands around Solas’s forearms and held on to him.

“So Corypheus must think that the Well _contains the will of Mythal_. If Erasthenes thinks it’s a power like Urthemiel’s, then that must mean he thinks it’s Mythal herself,” Ixchel said. “I… Solas, I had wondered if Calpernia was meant to be the Vessel for the Well…or for whatever power Corypheus thinks he’ll find in the Black City.”

Solas shook his head. “There is no great power in the Black City,” he said firmly. “There is only the Blight.”

Ixchel shivered. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Solas said bitterly. His nostrils flared as he accepted this revelation himself. “Corypheus wields the power of the Blight as a potent weapon…and it is the secret to his effective immortality, as you have revealed to me. It is only through the Blight that he learned of it. It is the Blight he stole from the Black City, and in doing so, he allowed the Evanuris a way to cross the Veil. But not in their entirety. No. For that…they would require the Veil to be torn open.”

 _Why did he save me?_ Ixchel found herself thinking suddenly, as she clung to Solas’s arms and looked up at the _fear_ on his face. _Why did he turn his back on his success and save me? He knew the Evanuris would be free. He knew their connection to the Blight, by then. He must have. So what went wrong that saving me was the only option?_

Ixchel rubbed her thumbs along the tense lines of Solas’s forearms. “He will not succeed,” she promised.

But his breaths came sharp through his nose as his passion mounted. She could feel the Fade flex and flux around him with his ire. “Dorian is right,” he said, biting the words out as though part of him wished that if he did not speak them, they would not be true. “The Veil has been irreparably damaged, Ixchel. If not Corypheus, then time will undo my work.”

“Then we will plan for that inevitability, and the consequences,” she said. “But first, Corypheus.” Ixchel reached up to cup his sharp face in her calloused palms. “And Mythal.”

A short breath escaped him. “What about her?” he asked, perhaps more sharply than Ixchel had anticipated.

“How did she know to find me in the snow?”

His eyes creased at the corners as he frowned. It seemed he had not considered that question before.

“Perhaps she simply looked,” he said at last. “You have been told how _bright_ you are, _arasha._ The mark in your hand burns like the watchman’s fire, visible from even distant corners of the Fade. It is how I found you, when you were in Val Royeaux and I was…far.”

“Oh, I _don’t_ like that,” she muttered.

“It is good, then, that you do not often walk the Fade alone,” he agreed. “We must be diligent in maintaining your defenses, even without the Nightmare’s threat.”

Ixchel met his gaze again and nodded, but she couldn’t help how her mind strayed to this strange wariness he had toward Mythal. She knew how he had spoken of how she did not remove the vallaslin from her people, even though she did not use them as a geas. She knew how he had disagreed with her, and she knew how he had thought of her as the best of the Evanuris—the one whose murder was the final straw that triggered his plan to erect the Veil. Yet even so, the fact that he did not mitigate her suspicions and even held some of his own surprised her.

She would think on that later. For now, she knew well enough that, however benevolent her ulterior motives might be, Mythal could still be a dangerous influence in her life.

Ixchel pulled his face down so she could rest her forehead against his. “Let’s dream of something better,” she said, extending an olive branch. “Corypheus gone, the Veil’s slow demise years, if not centuries away, and you, and me, walking this world…preparing it for it what could be.”

He breathed deeply with her as the snows faded into distant birdsong.

“What could be, _‘ma’av’in?”_ she asked him. “What is your dream?”


	93. Chapter 114 Excerpts

Solas’s nose traced along Ixchel’s cheek as she tilted her head to listen.

Children’s laughter filled the air, with plentiful birdsong. Those were the first things Ixchel noticed about Solas’s dream. And upon hearing it, she realized how infrequently she heard songbirds even in the most untouched wilderness; she realized how rare it was to hear a child _so carefree._

Immediately, she knew this was a world where it was not merely a mother’s protection that sheltered these children from the horrors of the world, but rather that the _world_ sheltered them.

When she looked up past Solas, she found that they were in a park. Around them rose structures of varied shapes and heights, but each equally clean and beautiful. The sky above them was bright and clear, not polluted by forges like Kiirkwall or Denerim. And it was full of creatures and Spirits on the move. The park was lush and sprawling, and families and couples and friends enjoyed themselves across the expanse of it.

Ixchel took Solas by the hand, and he threaded their fingers together, and they set off to explore this dreamscape.

Magic was practiced openly in this place, much like it was in Tevinter. But where the Magisters might bind Spirits to do their bidding and enchantments were disposed of like refuse in the street, it seemed that every task was performed willingly and nothing was put to waste. So much of life’s unnecessary troubles were eased not on the backs of slaves, but in harmony with any soul—mortal or Spirit—who wished to help. Voices all around placed requests and answered them freely; spent items were traded or recycled everywhere. Every living space incorporated something living in it, whether that was plants or animals living in harmony with the architecture and residents.

They spent an age walking through this wondrous city. A Circle Tower rose up near its center, but it was part of an entire complex of learning that was as large as a palace, or the Grand Convent. There were no portcullises or fences in its walls, but rather free archways that led into large open courtyards. In these yards, children practiced their magic with gentle guidance and loving acceptance rather than fear and stringent expectations. Older students came to study or teach or contribute, then left without hindrance. A hospital was incorporated into one side of the university complex where intermediate students of the healing arts apprenticed with more experienced mages.

No one refused treatment on the basis of their fear of magic.

And as Ixchel felt this world begin to fade with her waking, she and Solas turned to find themselves mirrored in that beautiful place. They were not together, but they were as ever the pair. In what she would later only recall as impressions, Ixchel dreamed that she taught her people to face any challenge to their physical or emotional safety—with body and mind aligned to discern and protect the values of their society. She counseled others into helping themselves and one another with the highs and lows of mortal life and mortal hearts. Ixchel dreamed that Solas taught new generations to remain ever-curious, to learn and distill information in any medium from art to political advising.

Nowhere did anyone raise prayers to gods, familiar or otherwise. But everywhere there was laughter and song, and everywhere there was kindness.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel opened her eyes and found that she had wept in her sleep.

A careful glance upward revealed that she was not the only one.

She carefully slipped out of Solas’s arms and out from beneath their warm cocoon so that she could begin preparations for the day’s journey. Cole caught her once she had taken a step away from her bedroll, and he cupped her face in his hands and smiled. He did not need to say anything.

Cole helped her ready the horses, but he did not warn her when Solas woke. She had her back turned when her lover’s lean arms came around her shoulders; she nearly jumped out of her skin from the fright—and nearly took out his nose with the back of her head. He dodged expertly before tightening his grip and burying his face in the side of her face, lips finding her temple around the ruff of her hood.

She reached up to curl her fingers around his arms, beneath her chin, and leaned back into him. It did not occur to her to apologize for startling so, for nearly hitting him. All she thought of was the vision he had shown her in the Fade.

Ixchel closed her eyes and swayed with Solas peacefully in the still morning.

“In whatever language, in whatever world…you are my heart,” he said, and his voice was tight, as though the words had swelled in his chest and strained to be heard. She could feel his heart beat against her back, hear the emotion in his every breath, and she understood. What else had he shown her, except a vision that spoke directly to her heart? And yet it was his vision, his dream, and he was her heart. How often had her soul called to him by that name? When would it hurt less to hear it, speak it? Because what else was he, but v _henan, vhenan, vhenan?_

She did not know when, if ever, she might be able to call him that or be called that herself. But she knew he understood.

“And you are mine,” she said earnestly.

Cole sat with Solas that day, but his eyes roamed the mountainside and the sky; he clearly delighted in the creatures he spotted. They ate rations in the saddle and rode close, side-by-side. All the while, Ixchel and Solas continued to trade stories. They were slow in their tellings, but there was nothing urgent to spur them and no impatience in the listener.

Ixchel told him of her true experience with Envy, which led into a patchwork explanation of her adventure through Vir Dirthara and the Deep Roads. She told him of the memories she had found in the library—not just the memory of the flower that they both now remembered so dearly, but others, too. They did not speak of her outburst after Therinfal Redoubt, did not address their first kiss there in the Fade. Ixchel knew Solas well enough to _know_ that he must be reflecting upon those moments in light of these new revelations. And she trusted him enough that she did not press or prod or otherwise demand to hear the result of his analysis.

In turn, Solas told her of great Spirits he had known: Glory, Valor, and Wisdom had been his companions in the service of Mythal, but they had all fallen prey to the Evanuris in one way or another. Fragments of them had remained, or been echoed through time. The Wisdom Ixchel had helped save was not the Wisdom who had been his partner, whose jawbone he wore around his neck, but she had been born of the fragments of that Wisdom and as such was older than many Spirits in the Fade today.

Ixchel did not vocalize her painful realization that, when she had failed to save Wisdom, Solas’s grief must have then been layered over the remembered grief of the Wisdom from which this younger one had sprung. Instead of voicing this revelation aloud, Ixchel simply reached out with one hand for him, and he had taken it between their horses, and she gave him a silent squeeze before releasing him again. He had to know where her sharp mind had wandered, and how she could not help but feel for him, and the man who he had once been, and the man that he would hopefully never be, all the same.

Cole was the only one to ask questions. He was in awe of these great Spirits Solas spoke of. He asked about the Librarians in Vir Dirthara. He asked how the “old places” knew to fly. Sometimes he stumbled across questions that neither of them felt ready to answer: he asked Solas if he had known Imshael and the others, and Solas demurred that it seemed even Spirits who had survived the ages had been changed very much from any he might have known. Cole asked Ixchel about the song from the Hall of Uthenera, and she had gotten lost in reverie as she tried to come up with an answer.

“That’s alright,” he said amiably. “You’ll remember eventually.”

She and Solas glanced at each other but did not investigate.

That night by the fire, Solas raised his eyes to Ixchel. “I had thought Morrigan seemed familiar.”

It took her a moment to follow. “A physical resemblance?”

“That as well,” he said with a cheeky smirk.

“To Sylaise and Andruil, or the All-Mother?” Ixchel asked, and Solas shrugged ambiguously. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” Ixchel said slowly. She had not forgotten the story of Fen’Harel and the Tree, after all, or of Wisdom and the jawbone…

Solas’s smile turned slightly more wry. He dropped his gaze back to the fire. _“’Ma serannas,”_ he said, for he knew her hesitation was for his sake. But it seemed that he was thinking of his past, and this troubled family he had lost, and he seemed to decide that the pain of remembering was worth the retelling.

“Falon’Din, Dirthamen, and I were born at the same time,” he began in a lower voice. “A mother’s Pride is a powerful thing. Perhaps it always irked Andruil that she did not inspire such a sentiment in Mythal herself. And perhaps Andruil could not see that she was the sentiment.”

Ixchel couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. “Yes, that does sound like a familiar relationship dynamic…” Her laughing smile faded. “So that must mean you knew them very, very well.”

Solas dipped his head, and sharp, deep shadows fell over his eyes. “Falon’Din’s vanity was apparent early on. He oversaw the advent of the Dreamers taking on bodies, and of all the Evanuris he reveled the most in pleasures of the flesh… Dirthamen was a voracious learner, and he used his knowledge to protect the People. He was the first to successfully bind a Spirit—two, of course: Fear and Deceit. But in doing so he proved that such a thing could be done.”

“Spirits binding Spirits,” Ixchel wondered aloud, and Solas nodded almost imperceptibly.

“He long regretted how that knowledge spread, and he learned to be cautious in how knowledge was obtained…and by whom.” Solas spread his hands and looked down at his gloves. “Vanity is not a corrupting thing in and of itself, unless it is given the tools to act on its jealous nature—to covet, and take, and to enforce disparities… That was what Dirthamen gave to Falon’Din, and perhaps that was the beginning of the end of Elvhenan.”

Ixchel tilted her head. She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Did he…” But she thought better of her question and let it die half-way out of her lips.

Solas looked up and caught her eye with a flash of silver. “I am curious why _that_ causes you to hesitate?”

Ixchel adjusted her fur hood embarrassedly with one hand, and she could not help the nervous smile that crept across her face. “Well, I wear his vallaslin, and I am a young Dalish fool,” she said. “It sounds…like hero-worship, to ask, ‘did Dirthamen help you free the slaves, Rebel Wolf?’ when I know he is locked away with the rest of the Evanuris, likely for the same good reason.”

He stared at her considerately for a long moment. “Be not afraid,” he said. “I would not have you fear me, or what I think of you. And I would not have it _stop_ you from asking questions.”

Ixchel’s blush deepened, but she nodded.

“He did aide the rebellion, in the end,” Solas continued. “But he had sowed great fear and mistrust among the People…and among the Evanuris. It did not take them long to turn on him. Then they turned on Mythal.”

“So why is he imprisoned?”

“Because when they sundered him, they did so with Blighted lyrium,” he said darkly.

Ixchel felt her stomach lurch.

“It was Fear who turned him over to his doom, and it was Fear you met,” Solas said. “Deceit protected Dirthamen’s refuge to the very end. Strangely enough, I had thought it would be Deceit to betray us.”

“Perhaps that was the deception,” she wondered under her breath, and his lips twitched humorlessly.

“It is strange, how the Spirit shapes the form in this world,” Solas continued. “Though Mythal no longer walks as an elf, her children resemble the first of the Elvhen… In body and soul. But Morrigan seems more discerning than Andruil ever was, even when the Huntress was most lucid.”

“And she’s a good mother. A good friend.” Ixchel stared into the fire. “After the Breach was sealed again and he left, I traveled with Morrigan and her son to all sorts of hidden places… I thought I might find him there, or traces of him. I learned so much about how free mages can be, how the rules of societies can be so different from one another for no good reason…” She smiled a little. “I can’t wait for you to meet the Avvar of Stone-Bear Hold.”

Solas cocked his head. “Hm?”

Her smile grew. “Young mages are possessed by gentle Spirits to help them keep their emotions and powers in check,” she began, “and when they come of age, they become separate again—in a painless transition. The beings that the Avvar call gods are just Spirits who look over them, time and time again. They commune, they observe, they aide one another… But it’s only the Lady of the Sky, and Korth Mountain-Father, and Hakkon Wintersbreath who take on a more traditionally deific role.”

“And they have their hold beasts,” Solas added.

Ixchel’s smile grew even wider. “Yes,” she said. She looked over to the side and found Cole where she had expected him. “I can’t wait for you to meet them, too.”

“You wish we would come with you, as a gift to us,” Cole said, smiling back. “You wish you could bring Vivienne and Dorian and Cassandra, to prepare them for what’s to come. But you think you already heard their judgments: ‘courting Abominations,’ ‘overconfident, spelling ruin.’”

Ixchel blushed again and looked away. “Yeah,” she said softly.

“Oh, ‘ _ma’lath,”_ Solas breathed. She peeked up at him through her lashes and found him gazing upon her with sad, shining eyes. Then, he stood, and she opened her arms to embrace him as he came around the fire. He did not speak of that hopeless wish of hers. He did not speak of their stubborn friends and companions.

But Cole did.

“‘If you don’t get some sunshine, you’ll wilt,’” Cole said in the disconcertingly dreamy tone he adopted when he channeled someone from afar. “Daisy says she’s not a plant, she’s fine, but falling, faltering, foolish. Blood on her hands, people and demons always end in trouble, he thinks. But he tells the stories he can believe in. He talks and the fear fades for everyone else but not the sundered Child of the Stone. Not anymore.” Cole blinked, and smiled. “You should bring Varric. If he sees, he might believe, and if _he_ believes, he might tell Anders the story.”

Solas slipped a hand beneath her hood and smoothed back her hair. She leaned in to his touch.

“Maybe I will,” she said. “Thank you, Cole.”

-:-:-:-:-

Cole turned slowly and walked back in Ixchel’s direction. Solas followed, and they moved a distance away from the Templar.

Cole silently removed the Amulet of the Unbound from his pocket and slipped it around his neck. Then, he vanished.

Ixchel reached for Solas. He embraced her tightly.

“It is interesting that the Avvar call Spirits 'gods,'" he said contemplatively above her head. "You once said that mortals ascribe Compassion, Kindness, Justice to be godly qualities, and in doing so render themselves incapable of embodying these virtues... And yet without Compassion's aide, we will never overcome the limitations of mortal hearts and minds."

There was a sorrow in his voice, despite their apparent success. Ixchel looked up at him and thought for a moment on his words, and what had transpired.

"Spirits reflect, don't they?" she offered. "That means that Compassion yet remains a mortal quality. The kind of forgiveness that we just saw is a hopeful one, a restorative one. We can learn that. Teach that."

A short laugh escaped Solas. He pressed his now-smiling lips against her forehead. "Of course," he said. "You are nothing if not mortal, and compassionate and kind." He stooped lower to slant his mouth against her own, gentle and light. "And you have taught me, and we have helped Cole..."

"And someday, our dream will be a reality," she promised.


	94. Chapter 116 Excerpt

“May life give you better choices,” he said over his shoulder, now at the mouth of the cave.

“Better choices, Samson,” she said quietly.

She turned back to her companions quickly to assess their condition, and she found that Anders still lay unconscious between them. Solas had carefully pulled open the mage’s robes and packed a roughly-made salve over some gaping wounds in the man’s chest, but there was little else he seemed to be able to do. Solas himself had pulled off his robes, armor, and tunic to deal with his own injuries: a gash across his hip streamed blood down his leg, and it seemed he had been stabbed. But even worse, his pale skin was mottled with blue-and-black bruises.

“You get thrown down a cliff?” she asked, failing to keep the shock and horror out of her voice as she limped to his side. As she lowered herself to her knees, he let his hands fall from where he was trying to put pressure on the stab wound in his shoulder. Those hands were covered in blood and pungent herbs; his fingers lay curled and weary on his knees, palms-up. His face was tired, too.

That didn’t stop him from quirking an eyebrow at her. “As a matter of fact, I was pushed,” he said.

Ixchel took up the bloody rag and pressed it against the wound for him. He did not flinch. "I'm not going to ask you about—what was it? ‘Non-displaced rib fractures’?" She attempted to inject a teasing note in her voice, but again, she failed. “How is Anders?”

“He requires the skill of one more experienced in the healing arts," Solas admitted.

"There's someone in town who can be discrete," Cole said at her shoulder. "They sew up the brawlers underground and treated Mages and Templars. For coin, they'll keep any secret."

Ixchel met Solas's eye. "Alright... Be safe, Cole," she allowed.

Cole pressed his fingers against her forehead briefly. "Even simple things have consequences. Hurt touches hurt, inspires Vengeance or Greed. Things don't need to be simple to be _right_."

Ixchel sighed. “I know, Cole. Thanks.”

He left the cave in search of a healer. Solas looked down at Ixchel with an inscrutable expression, but she lowered her chin and kept her eyes fixed on his hands. It was hard not to see the beauty in them: long, pale fingers streaked with shining red blood, soft palms soaked with it like so much paint. Delicate and deadly, without distinction.

"You let Samson go again," Solas observed.

"Do you want me to justify myself?" she asked hollowly. "Because I don't know if I can."

Solas's fingers flexed. "You have no need, with me. If he is no longer serving Corypheus, then he is not an immediate concern. If he is truthful about his plans—whatever he told you they were—and those plans do not involve the continued slaughter of innocents, then he is little threat. The question remains the same for him as it was for Calpernia: our friends have been deeply hurt by this person, Ixchel, and there are many other victims. What justice will they receive?"

"He plans on giving it to them by dying like a Warden in the Deep Roads," Ixchel said quietly. "Acts of service to make up for what he's done. I think that's all anyone can ask of the wicked."

Ixchel let one hand drift from his shoulder down his arm, and she found his hand awaiting her. He laced their fingers together.

"Even such a blood payment may seem unfair if not meted out by the hand of the wronged." Solas tilted his head slightly. "Do you think there is any being you might not show such forgiveness?"

Ixchel thought for a moment, staring morosely down at their joined hands. "I don't know," she admitted. "Retribution is not justice... I don't think I'm the judge of what justice _is_ , but... I'm not going to stop someone from doing good. There isn't enough of it in the world."

Solas raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

 _What are you thinking, Solas?_ she wanted to ask. Instead, she pressed a little more against the wound in his shoulder and sighed again.

“What are you thinking, Ixchel?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows, then shook her head. “Do we go to the Arbor Wilds and appeal to the Sentinels at the Temple of Mythal to warn them ahead of time? Do we go to Stone-Bear Hold and kill Hakkon before Corypheus can figure out that he’s locked there?”

Solas brushed his thumb across the back of her gloved hand. “I might be of assistance, _rogasha’ghi’lan_.”

She blinked at him.

“Felassan was not the only ancient one who serves the cause,” Solas said. “It may still be difficult to reach the Sentinels, but I would trust my agent to find a way without attracting Corypheus’s attention.”

She squeezed his hand. “Too many Sentinels died last time,” she said. “Too much of our history, lost. And the Well…” She exhaled slowly. “If you would try…”

A smile briefly passed across his face. “It will be done.”

They quietly went over the path to the Temple of Mythal; the landscape had changed quite a bit in the intervening years since Solas had last visited that corner of the world. Ixchel walked him through how to reach the Temple, if one started from Watcher’s Reach in the Emerald Graves. He promised to entrust the task to an agent that very night, if they were able to sleep peacefully.

Cole returned with a rather haggard looking man who, at first glance, seemed to be a trapper of some kind. But then he withdrew a divining rod from his sleeve and a lyrium potion and sat down beside Anders to begin healing. He did not raise his eyes to Ixchel at all, did not acknowledge them at all, but Cole whispered a price in Ixchel’s ear and the mage nodded silently.

Ixchel counted out the coins and left them beside the mage’s component pouch.

Cole hummed quietly to himself while the mage worked, and Ixchel and Solas sat in silence while they waited. When the mage finally finished with Anders, he passed his hands shakily over Solas’s wounds and closed them, but they remained angry and bruised. “All I can do,” the healer said roughly, then began to pick up his coin.

“I would prefer not to stay here,” Solas said as he slowly dressed himself again.


	95. Chapter 117 and 118 Excerpts

Before the two could address her further, Cole pulled her out of that place and into Solas’s dream. He stood in the Emerald Graves, on a hill topped by a wolf statue in a pavilion. Ixchel knew the place well. Solas was indeed waiting there, dressed in his golden armor and wolf pelt. He turned, chin high and regal, as they approached.

“ _Arasha_ ,” he said warmly, and to hear him address her in Elvhen with his honey-smooth accent while he wore such imposing ancient armor—it made her heart do something funny in her chest. But even here, even in the Fade, whatever light, girlish feeling might have spurred her to run to him was not able to overcome the anxiety that preoccupied her.

She approached him slowly, and as she drew closer, his features melted into an expression of concern. His stance melted, too; he had stood with his arms clasped behind his back, ever the military leader, but now he reached for her elbow with a gentle, questioning hand. She swept him up with her, and they set off walking around the pavilion.

“We just spoke to Anders and Justice,” she told him. “How did your meeting go?”

“I trust that my people will establish contact with the Temple attendants and Abelas,” he replied. “Do not let it worry you. Tell me what preoccupies you.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said with a sigh. “It’s more relieving than you know, to have that taken off my shoulders, Solas.” His fingers curled around her elbow and drew her a little closer, but he did not speak. She stepped into the space he allowed and let the story pour forth. “They’re trying to separate from one another.” She sighed and squeezed her elbow to bring his hand tighter to her side. “And you know who promised him a solution? Here’s the hint: he was trying to go to the Korcari Wilds. I wish I could go _just a minute_ without someone trying to meddle…”

Solas chuckled darkly. “It does seem that the All-Mother is quite invested in the fates of a rather small, interconnected group of people.”

“Anyway, I’m sure she _would_ help him, but not without something precious in exchange… So we’re going to the Avvar instead, as soon as Anders can walk.” She shook her head. “Which complicates _that_ plan of mine. I should bring Cassandra, and Dorian, and Varric. But— _fendedhis_. They’ll kill him on sight.”

Her lover made a low noise of sympathy, but something about his manner drew Ixchel’s gaze. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Keep him out of sight,” he said. “Let us reach this Avvar hold and plant Anders among them, or at least among someone friendly nearby—and then we might control if and when he is reintroduced to those who might know him.”

“That’s basically what Cole said,” she lamented. “I don’t want to keep a secret from Cassandra. It will destroy her trust in me. I mean, _this_ secret, at least.”

Solas turned to face her more fully, and he pushed her hair back behind her ear. His eyes glittered as he looked down at her with some inscrutable emotion. Her heart sank at the sight nevertheless.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “you must choose.”

Ixchel turned her face into Solas's hand, because she couldn't look at him at that moment. She knew he was right, and she knew this was her responsibility as Inquisitor. More than that, even, it was her responsibility as an agent of change. It was _her_ dream she was trying to force on the world, on the Chantry, on these societies, and she would have to show them what justice looked like in that world.

And it shouldn't be hard. She _did c_ ondemn Anders' and Justice's actions in Kirkwall. She would not tolerate terrorism, even in the name of a better world. But Cole was right there beside her; she had seen Imshael's golden form; she had seen Wisdom twist into Pride at the behest of mortal mages... She knew better than anyone how difficult the mortal world was for Spirits, and how even corrupted Spirits weren't beyond saving. That was one of her core beliefs.

Yet she did not know what to do in light of it, now.

"I must speak to Cassandra first," Ixchel said into Solas's palm. "I owe her that, after all the choices I've made without considering her…"

Solas breathed with her silently for a moment, then said: "You cannot take Anders to Skyhold. But will you summon her here, without making her aware of what she will find…?”

“No, I can’t,” she agreed. Ixchel raised her hand to clutch Solas's tighter to her cheek. "Will you stay with them, for me?" she asked quietly.

Solas was silent for a moment, and she raised her eyes to ascertain why. His face wasn't particularly expressive, but she could tell that he had immediately understood what she intended to do. And maybe it was because they were in the Fade, or maybe she had truly gained the ability to read him behind his masks, but she could see his reaction to her plan plain in his gaze. There was an appraisal there, a respect. But mostly she saw guilt. It was not guilt for something he had done to cause her suffering, at least; she had seen that all too often. Rather, in the situation laid out before them, he seemed to have been reminded of something that haunted him.

Ixchel recalled how he had spoken of coordinating rebel movements with Sera, once, so long ago. He had spoken of ruthless executions, a remorseless policy of need-to-know—and now that she knew he had murdered his agent, Felassan, she understood exactly the kind of choices that might be responsible for the look in his eye.

She was the leader of armies. She was a political figure who could make empires tremble in fear. And this—and so many of her choices—would be recorded in blood and history.

Ixchel couldn’t help but think, perhaps, that she was slightly less impulsive than the elf who had thought his only option was to create the _Veil_. Yet he, in all likelihood, had thought himself better than that, too.

_As long as the music plays…_

"Then you will go back to Skyhold with Compassion?" he asked finally.

"No, I need to stay with Anders and Justice," Cole said. Ixchel nodded and closed her eyes again. "No one else in Thedas knows what they’re going through, but us,” Cole added.

"I do not doubt that," said Solas, "nor do I doubt your ability to reach Skyhold on your own, 'ma'lath. I simply wish you to have some assurance of...solidarity, as you brave a potential confrontation."

Ixchel squeezed his hand. "I do," she told him, but she wasn't so certain of how useful it would be when what she wanted was for her friends’ continued love.

 _If anything were to end it, this would be it,_ she thought.

But she had thought that before. She was once again on the precipice of the unknown, the same cliff she had stood at so many times. And Cassandra had _promised_. She had sworn. She had told Ixchel not to doubt her friendship. Ixchel tried to tell herself that Cassandra was a woman of faith, a woman of her word.

Cole put his hand on her elbow. "They can’t even _imagine_ you as a prisoner anymore,” he said. “They can’t imagine it, so they won’t, so you won’t be. You’re the _Inquisitor_. That means something to them."

"All I'm afraid of is loss," she told him softly. "But that can't stop me, when there's so much to gain."

Solas's lips twitched a little ruefully, but he made no further comment. Instead, Cole’s presence left their dream, and Solas raised his other hand to frame Ixchel’s face in his hands. Once more, he gave her that look of rueful recognition—but she did not fear it.

And Solas did not give her reason to doubt, for he drew her closer to kiss her such that no other thought could fit in her mind; no fear could find purchase in her heart. For as long as the dream might last, she could find solace in him, and he in her.

It would be the _din’an’shiral_ either way, after all, but they walked it now together.


	96. Chapter 119 Excerpts

Ixchel left Solas's horse and Isenam in the stable with Seanna's stock, then returned to the farmhouse with Solas's belongings. She set them down by the door but gave him a little wave, then returned outside. He followed a moment later, and they walked off to the north of the farm for some privacy.

"I am starting to realize how...entwined they are," Solas said gravely, once they’d drawn far enough out of earshot. "Justice has been molded into something else—not simply Vengeance, but not fully into personhood, either. It is surely a miserable state of being. And it is far more complex than Compassion's decision to become mortal or not."

"Then it really is fortunate that they have you," she said, laying a hand lightly on his hip. He glanced down at her as he walked, his own hands clasped behind his back. She offered him a tight smile. "I defer to you on these matters. Though in the end... I don't know if we can convince Anders he shouldn't die."

Solas gave her a thin smile. "Do you believe we should convince him?" he asked in an idle voice.

"No," Ixchel admitted. "Life is worth living, unless you have no hope to live free."

"And he does not?"

"He'd always be on the run. The very people he'd wish to help would reject him... And all that would await him is the Calling, anyway," she said wearily.

"Ah. Yes. He was a Warden."

Ixchel shrugged. "As much as any of them were Wardens during the last Blight." She shook her head. "Mahariel said none of them knew anything about being Wardens besides the fact that they were _necessary_ , and I don't think Anders stuck around long enough to be called one, in truth."

A harsh breath escaped Solas's lips, but he did not comment further. Instead, he tilted his head to listen to something to their northwest.

"I sense an artifact," he said.

"Do they really strengthen the Veil?" she asked, though she was already walking in the direction he had signaled.

He nodded slowly. When he did not immediately begin telling her how it worked, she gave him a nudge. “How?” she prompted.

Ixchel glanced up at him in time to see his ear twitch toward her; he was struggling to hide a smile, and it eased something wound tight in her chest to know how she could please him with such simple curiosity. But she did want to know. “You said the Veil was like…like a song, itself?”

"The Veil is a perfectly discordant song designed to disrupt the harmony of the dreaming and waking worlds," he said. Ixchel grinned at the careful, measured tone he often adopted when he found a new lesson to impart. "I began this song at Skyhold, and the Veil is a creation that stands in its own. But these...devices receive, and amplify, and transmit the Veil back upon itself. I do not know when they began to fail. Likely, it was long before Corypheus."

"Will they be enough for some time?" Ixchel asked. "Or will they only hold off the inevitable for a little while?"

Solas spread out his arms in a wide shrug as they crossed a shallow creek. "I would need to study them with greater attention, perform tests... But it likely can wait until Corypheus is no longer a threat."

“Alright, professor,” she teased. “I’ll be sure to hurry and defeat this would-be god. The good news is, I’m years ahead of schedule.”

Solas made a soft noise of surprise. “Really?”

She was careful not to look back at him as she led the way up the next hill, and she kept her voice light. “I was sixteen at the Conclave,” she reminded him. “I didn’t spend _that_ long chasing Fen’Harel. Most of it was trying to figure out what the _fuck_ this darkspawn Magister was.’

There was a bear waiting for them at the mouth of the cave, and Ixchel handled it quickly with Solas’s barrier over her skin. She stood over the carcass while Solas lit some veilfire and tried to decide if she were going to skin it or not.

But as he turned and disappeared into the cave, Ixchel found that she did not want to waste their last few hours together on such an ultimately inconsequential task.

She followed Solas into the crypt and studied a rune while he went to activate the artifact. Unlike many such veilfire runes she had found over the years, it did not impart instructions for some lost technique—rather, it was a hymn that dedicated this place as a wine cellar:

 _Holy Sylaise, wise and fair,_  
 _once held this place in her care._  
 _Sweet Sylaise with your warm song,  
_ _keep our wine sweet ‘til the feast is done_ .

Though Ixchel understood their meaning, she heard the memory narrated in what was clearly an Elvhen accent. She narrowed her eyes at it. “This is from Elvhenan?”

“Seems to be,” he said as he stooped over the artifact.

“It feels like it’s incomplete? Is that right?” She turned as Solas made a noise of agreement. “This has happened in a number of places, then. My agents once found part of what looked like Vir Dirthara in the middle of the Deep Roads. The stone just…became books. Did I tell you that already?”

He finished activating the artifact and came to join her in the pale light of the veilfire. “Dreams are limited by what one can imagine,” Solas said, “and what one can imagine is a reflection of one’s experiences. And if one’s experiences came from the material world, well…”

Ixchel frowned. “I thought they fell?”

“Yes. _Out_ of the dreams,” he said softly. “Such as what will happen to Morrigan’s eluvian network someday.”

She continued to frown as he turned her away from the rune, and as his arms came around her, she buried her frown in his chest. His shirt was stiff with dried blood, and he smelled strongly still of red lyrium and electricity. But beneath it all, he smelled like Solas. She breathed him in as she slipped her arms up around his back and committed it all to memory. She had no idea how long it would be before she would see him again.

At least there was no longer a voice in her heart that questioned _if_ she would see him again any time they parted ways.

She dug her fingers into the lean muscles of his back and sighed. There was so much she wanted to say, but she didn’t have the energy. She wished that they could help Anders and Justice. She hoped that Solas… _enjoyed_ the opportunity to help, too. She wanted him to have as many opportunities as she could provide to bring his world back to life—one person at a time, perhaps. And she hoped that this was a good chance for Cole to feel helpful, now that he had chosen his path as Compassion. She wished she could be a part of it, but it had simply become clear that she was not equipped to connect with Anders and Justice. She did not possess the lore or experience to help them through the dark place they had found themselves.

And that hurt. Because as much as she was grateful that she was alive, and as much as she had moved on from her anger at her own resurrection—she she was having a difficult time separating her responsibility as Inquisitor from her desire to help a friend and her desire to change the world. Some of those things would be easier if Anders lived, but if he didn’t want to, then…? But if he _wanted_ to die, then…?

She shook her head at herself against Solas’s chest and sighed again. In the end, she was a well-intentioned blunt instrument of change, and she knew that to be useful, she needed to go bash some heads together at Skyhold.

That didn’t make leaving any more palatable. And she didn’t know how to speak of it without sounding either petulant, or weak, or—

“I will miss you by my side,” he said over her head.

—or maybe it was as simple as that.

She took a deep breath of him and closed her eyes. Voice muffled in his chest, she knew he heard her more perhaps for the vibrations of her words than for the sound itself: “And I, you.”

“I believe my dreams will be somewhat spoken for, given the company I will be keeping,” he admitted. “Perhaps this is a good opportunity for you to practice your wards—I know.” He hushed her softly and pulled away to look down into her face. “But if you can keep _me_ out, you should have little to fear from your enemies.”

“I know,” she agreed balefully. “I never practice when you’re around, and I _should_ , but…” She blushed a little despite herself and mirrored his rueful smile. “I’ll see if Dorian will help me.”

Solas gave her a shallow nod. “If you have need of me, I’m certain that Compassion will let me know,” he told her.

“I know,” she said again.

His brow softened at her tone, and he kissed her forehead at the center of Dirthamen’s crown. Before he could pull away, she reached up and caught his face in her hands. She kept her eyes closed as she held him, brushed her thumbs across the flat planes of his cheeks and curled her fingers in the soft warmth behind his ears. She never wanted to be without the _sensation_ of him at her fingertips. His hands settled on her shoulders and bunched in her hair, which she had worn loose today, and he let her have her moment to bask in his aura. As much as she loved walking the Fade with him, this was what she would miss the most.

But even so, she was filled with the sudden, sharp longing to be _closer_. More than sex, more than lying entwined with him, more than walking the same consciousness in a dream. It was as though every piece of her had been carved from him and wanted to return to where it belonged. Perhaps that was true, in a way, and she wondered what would ease that ache—if anything ever could.

She did not fear that feeling, or how it might grow in his absence. Rather, she _relished_ it, here in his arms, just as she might worry at a wound or prod a bruise. It served as a reminder, a tether, an anchor, and it was good to know it was there as she was preparing to leave.

“Perhaps there will be good news from Wycome,” he said, lips ghosting across her skin with every word. “Perhaps the Dalish will have made plans for their Arlathvhen. Perhaps the new Marquise will have established order in the Dales.”

“I hope,” she said in reply.

“And by now, the last of our friends will have all returned from the Western Approach,” Solas added.

She nodded silently.

A long, slow breath eased from him, and he tightened his fingers in her hair. “I can see you arming your heart for battle already,” he said. “How is it that _I_ believe in Cassandra’s willingness to listen to you, but you cannot?”

“I can, I just—” Ixchel stopped herself and shoved her face into his chest again. “I don’t know how to not be like this.”

“It’s alright, Ixchel,” he soothed. “That is what we discussed in the Emprise, is it not? I am not the one who can tell you how to accept your fear, to feel it, without living in the worst outcome before it has arrived. All I can do is observe when you are doing it and hope that you can move beyond its confines.”

A shiver ran down her spine at his words, at the conjured memory of that cold night where her tears had frozen to her face and she had let him see some of the darkness within her. The Despair. But he was right; she was tensing to absorb a blow that might not come, and a stoic facade might not be the best strategy to avoid it, either.

“What do you fear?” he asked her now. “That they will strip you of your title and imprison you? Kill you for sympathizing with an abomination? Call the Dalish savage a _heretic_?”

“I don’t want Cassandra to feel that I don’t respect her sense of justice,” she admitted, and as soon as the thoughts became words, they summoned tears to her eyes. She almost laughed at herself, but she could not deny that speaking these truths was helping her to feel them, to ground her. “And…Cullen…”

Solas made a sound that drew her eyes upward. His expression was somewhat guarded. “What?” she asked.

“I do not know if you should worry about him,” he said, voice prickling with some negative emotion. “It seems he is primed to replace his lyrium addiction with another. You could easily position yourself as the alternative.”

“ _What?”_ she repeated, pushing back a little. Solas scowled in response. “Are you kidding? Whatever he feels about me, if I challenge this part of the Chantry, then there’s no way he’d still feel—”

“So then what are you afraid of?” he asked sourly.

Ixchel’s lips parted in shock, and as he scowled down at her, the full truth dawned on her. She stared at Solas in dismay. “That’s—I’m not— I don’t care if he—”

“Then what are you afraid of?” he repeated.

She floundered as she tried to put into words what it meant to have Cullen’s friendship. They had been so close once before, and he had been so _kind_. He had supported her in some of her darkest moments, then and now. He had never hesitated to offer his companionship, even when she couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. The fact that there was some new distance between them already hurt her, when she compared their friendship to what it had been, what she knew it could be.

But if she really investigated it, she knew it _couldn’t_. Something had changed, now that she was older—now that she was more sure of what she believed in and challenged the Andrastian world order with every action she took. And as much as she worried about how _Cassandra_ would react to her, Solas was right. A part of her, even if it wasn’t a loud part, _did_ trust that Cassandra would remain at her side. That the Seeker would listen and still care for Ixchel after what she heard, even if she didn’t agree. Because Cassandra had promised.

Ixchel was less certain of Cullen and the strange territory they traversed. Because they hadn't had the same relationship foundation to fall back on--and that hurt to think about. Losing him. Not losing his affection, but losing his friendship.

How could she explain that to Solas?

“He was the only one who stood with me after I disbanded the Inquisition,” she said at last. “He was the only one who didn’t leave. And here I am, leaving his way of life behind, calling everything he knows _wrong_. And…he asked me to be someone to support him, in this life, and I owe that to him after everything—so—and—I don’t want to see _my friend_ fall, Solas.”

Her voice, tight with tears, cracked on his name. Her lover’s brow remained clouded, eyes dark. He watched her wipe at her face in silence.

“That is noble,” he said at last. “And kind.”

“So you think… Solas, I could _never_ manipulate someone like that. I’m not… I’m not _so_ vain, that I would care about whether or not he…whether or not he has romantic feelings for me.” She swallowed, gaze dropping to their feet. “That hurts, Solas.”

He dropped his hands to her shoulder. “I did not mean to imply that I think you are manipulative,” he said harshly. “Please, believe that.”

She blinked rapidly. “So then…”

Solas’s breath was rough in his throat. He held her at arm’s length, thumbs dug into her shoulders to steady her. “You two are close, and you were close before we clarified our bond,” he said carefully. “As are you and Fenris…”

“Oh,” Ixchel said with a shaky laugh. “That’s all, then? Should I swear my commitment to you in Elvhen? Would that help?”

“I do not doubt your faithfulness either,” Solas said. He gave a harsh sigh. “I simply understand that it is possible for hearts to want many things simultaneously, and… I did not want to think that, but, if it were true… I would respect it, as I respect your feelings for the Blue Wraith…”

Ixchel raised her hands to cover his. “I closed those doors, Solas," she told him with as earnest a look as she could muster. "I told you. There's only you, forever, as long as you wish it... Maybe it’s hard for you to believe that…?”

She could see it in his face, immediately—that yes, that was something that remained difficult for him to believe.

And now she truly did not want to part ways.

“If I could spend a year and a day just proving that to you, I would,” she whispered.

“You should not waste a year and a day,” he replied, voice softening to match hers. “There are better uses of your limited time… _Ir abelas_ , I did not wish to send you off this way.”

Ixchel laughed again a little. “It certainly took my mind off of all of my other imagined troubles,” she admitted. “But I don’t want _you_ to be haunted by this doubt while I’m gone.”

“I will do my best not to be,” he promised, and he laced their fingers together.

Ixchel wished they were not in a dark, cold cave. She wished that they did not have a proven terrorist waiting for them back at the farmhouse. She wished that they had had even another day to spend with one another, alone in the woods…to kiss under the moon…to smooth over this sticking point and reassure him, and herself.

But they did not have these luxuries. So she simply stood on her toes to kiss him one last time, and then she pulled him by the hand back to Dennet’s farm to collect her belongings.

Solas stood in the doorway to watch her departure, but Ixchel did not look back once she had mounted Isenam and set off on her way.

-:-:-:-:-


	97. Chapter 124 **

Ixchel had not known how long it would take Solas to come to her in the Fade, or if he would at all. The long wait, wandering the Fade in search of him, was reminiscent of Before, when he was the elusive Dread Wolf who had styled her as an enemy when they both knew she refused to be one. A Dread Wolf who watched as a multitude of gleaming eyes in the shadows, or a pair of divinely blue eyes as a wolf on the periphery of her dreams.

Perhaps it was that creeping sense of familiarity that set her on edge. Whatever it was, she waited long enough to wear herself out, and she slipped into an out-of-focus state of dreaming. And without her wards, without his presence, that dream bled into a nightmare of a kind.

She was not clawing her way out of the Deep Roads; neither was she in Vir Dirthara, or falling off the Abyssal Rift at Adamant, or any number of other places that haunted her.

She was in her bed, paralyzed, breathless, numb, and a monster was in the room with her. Unlike the day she died, there was no sunlight to keep it from creeping to the foot of her bed.

And unlike the day she died, she did not want to die anymore.

 _Nonononono,_ she pleaded desperately as she tried to regain control of her dreamed body. _Wakeupwakeupwakeup—_

Solas’s appearance in her dream was as sudden and terrifying as a shattered window. Yet it was not the windows that shattered: it was the whole dream. The Despair that had invaded her mind was caught and assessed and torn to shreds by virtue of Solas’s mere presence, it seemed. One moment, Ixchel was frozen in bed, screaming to wake and incapable of grasping herself, and the next, she was held fast in _Solas_ as he wrested her from this nightmare and into his dream.

The suddenness of it was utterly disorienting, but he held her fast and tight until she had come to herself again. That, in itself, was disconcerting; it felt far too similar to how the Dread Wolf had carved her soul out of eternal death at the end of her world.

Ixchel clung to Solas, and then, slowly, she realized that he clung to her with just as desperate a grasp.

“Solas!”

She shifted her grip on him to look him in the face and wished to see past it, to see into him. For a split second—the span of half a heartbeat, a flicker in the Fade—his eyes were dark and _feral_ as they looked down at her. He was angry, he was hurt, he was scared.

But a moment later, all that was gone, and he was just _sad_.

He collapsed around her in a whirl of magic, and she held on to him and his presence as tightly as she could amid the roaring onslaught. A panicked thought entered her: _I can’t lose him._

“ _Emma lath,_ ” she pleaded. “I’m here.”

“Yes.” His voice rasped, quaked, and it terrified her. Ixchel knew her fear could very well be a mere remnant of whatever Demon had sought to prey upon her. But the fact that even in his presence her terror did not melt away and the dream did not settle, kept her fears alive.

She summoned all her strength and raised herself up to steady him. She grasped him by the nape of his neck and his cheek and pulled his forehead to hers. “I’m here,” she repeated.

“You are real,” he whispered.

That shook her into an urgent, cold rationality. “Did you have a nightmare too?” she asked. “What has upset you like this?”

“I—”

It was so unlike him to start a sentence before he had thought of how to finish it. His next words caught in his throat, and when he swallowed them, buried whatever he was about to admit deep within him, he likewise drove his tension down and out of view. His shoulders slumped and his hands fell limp at his sides.

Then the Fade shaped itself out of its amorphous tumult and into that small cave-like chamber in which Fen’Harel had painted his self portrait. On the wall behind him, the wolf and the man ran across the dark landscape, framed by the moon, carefree and innocent. Beneath them, this time, were furs and reed mats. They stood together in the midst of this one-time den of his and breathed together in silence.

She brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek and found it cold and hard as alabaster. She knew when he hid behind masks.

“Don’t make me ask Cole,” she warned, breath hot against his face. His lashes fluttered and obscured the silver windows behind them. She shook him a little. “Solas?”

He shook his head slowly, nose touching hers with every turn left and right.

“Just tell me.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper, weak—still afraid. “It doesn’t have to make sense. I don’t have to understand. I won’t judge you. Whatever it is… I can be the one you tell. Please tell me.”

“I have broken _everything_ ,” his lips tried to say, but his voice was naught but a breath. “The Fade. Spirits. _Myself_.”

Ixchel stared at his closed eyelids in blank confusion. What had brought this on? What did it mean?

He was telling her, at least, and that meant something.

She shushed him gently and kissed his brow, because without any other answers, she was afraid to speak. She at least could tell him, without words, that she would not take his admissions and leave. Whatever had changed—her faithfulness remained constant. She wanted to be his anchor amid whatever had whipped his mind into a storm.

He tilted his head a little, nearly to catch her lips with his own, but before she could close the distance he had started to speak again:

“It is impossible for them to extricate willingly. That should not _be_. I cannot help them, even with what power I have grown in these waking months.” His throat worked around a knot of tears that she could almost—almost—hear in his voice. “And…they will seek penance for their crimes, the lives they have destroyed. But what can I do, Ixchel? Nothing I can do shall ever compare to the _magnitude_ of my folly…”

With every word, Ixchel’s heart lurched to and fro. Nausea filled her as though she were on a ship caught by a tempest; his words wreaked chaos within her. It was not his honesty that unsettled her, for he had become quite honest with her over the past several months. Nor was it necessarily his grief—because, perhaps better than perhaps anyone alive or ever, she knew that he kept grief as a constant companion. But he had hardly seemed so…raw…since they left the Fade. She had feared it was only a matter of time before his ghosts resurfaced, and it seemed that a week without her, dreaming or waking, had let them in.

Ixchel held steady as she could but for the heavy breath that escaped her. He looked up at her with his ancient eyes, and she knew how rare this vulnerability was.

“What can you do?” she repeated softly. “You think your mistake vast across the Veil, and such is the length of the reparations you’ll make. You think you deserve a quick and rash and desperate punishment to match a desperate mistake?”

His tired, sad mask crumpled beneath the weight of his grief. She crushed him to her, for she wished somehow to remind him that this body of his did not need to be always a prison. That he was not adrift, alone, in a dream; she was a willing anchor. He could walk both worlds, with her at his side.

“Yours is the hard, slow road to redemption. And I will be with you every step of the way,” she told him.

Solas’s fingers dug into her back. Something she had said had hurt him, but she didn’t know what.

“I am afraid for you,” she told him. “What brought this on?”

A shudder wracked his lean frame. He looked up at her with shining eyes. “None of them know how it should be. Not even Compassion… I grieve, Ixchel.”

She ran her nails lightly up and down his back and tried to think of whether she was meant to say anything, or if his grief needed space to settle. Instead of speaking, she pressed her lips gently to his cheek. It was alabaster, porcelain, no longer. It was soft and warm and damp.

She kissed his brow next, then his other cheek, then his jaw.

He made a pained sound in his throat at her show of tenderness, and he tightened his grip on her, his lifeline. “There are so many things that still catch me,” he whispered. “Every day. Every moment. There is a reminder. Every spell is a battle, a demand, when magic should be as constant and steady as breath, beyond thought...”

“We will find a way to make it flow,” she promised.

Solas flinched suddenly. “ _Ir abelas,_ ” he whispered. “This is your dream…” He was still so close to her lips that the words were traded on breaths between them. He ran his tongue across his own lips as though they were dry, as though he were nervous. “I do not have nightmares… I create them for myself…”

She brushed her thumbs across the high lines of his cheeks again and shaped the Fade more to her liking. There were no reminders of Fen’Harel, of painful choices, of lost innocence, in the place she brought him: the Skyhold garden in bloom. Her mind embellished it, perhaps. In the waking world, she doubted the ground would ever be so lavishly strewn with blossoms. But she adored the sight of him framed against the flowering trees, and she hoped to remind him of the hope they kindled in one another.

“I am real,” Ixchel told him, and she kissed him gently.

But he shivered beneath her hands. His fingers tightened once again against her back, her waist, then released her. He slid lower, down onto his knees amid the scattered flowers.

“I have missed the sound of your voice,” he said. The raw note in his voice had been replaced with something more certain, but the look in his eye remained vulnerable and afraid and still left her at a loss about his motives or desires—or how she could help him.

She swept her hands across his face, cupped his jaw. “My constant moralizing?” she teased hesitantly. “I can tell you all about my conversations today. Hours of prattling.”

“Please,” he said, and he began to unlace her trousers.

She raised her eyebrows down at him, gestured with one hand at the empty wings of the garden. “Demons, Solas?”

His gaze flickered up to her just as he got her pants loose enough to pull down her legs. The Fade had warmed around them, and she could feel his breath on her thighs—

“Trust me,” he said. “Please.” And this time, his voice was softer, nearly a question, nearly _withdrawing_ —

She wondered if this was as close to begging as she might ever hear him. If her lover had not just crashed into her dream in a panic, and if he had not seemed so desperate to remind himself that she was real in the wake of his guilt about the state of the world—she might have relished the idea of him on his knees for her. But as it stood, she had spent months trying to teach him that she was real, that this world was fixable, and that had been cast into doubt somehow.

Of course, she had not been the one opposed to this, the last time they had come close to such an encounter in the Fade. But the lance of unhappy fear in her breast was remarkably unarousing.

She relented and began to tell him softly of how her friends had each reacted to the revelations she laid at their feet. She led with her tense arrival at Skyhold, and as she spoke, he bared new swathes of skin as he drew her trousers down. It didn’t take long for her to realize he was probably doing so in some obscure mathematical pattern—every few words of hers triggered movement, and in the lulls between he skimmed his lips across her jumping flesh. His hands sometimes dropped to idly brush across the tops of her feet or the inside of her calves, and maybe that was what made her realize that this was less of a game and more of a ritual. A ritual she did not understand but one she could respect for the comfort that it promised to bring him.

So she moved on to tell him of her discussion with Cassandra, and she could not help the eagerness that crept into her voice as she told him of the most promising developments. She looked down at him with shyly, for she wanted to see how he took this idea that the future leader of the disastrously misguided human Chantry might consider a more holistic view of Spirits and magic. He lifted her ankle with one elegant hand to free it from the heap of cloth beneath her, and then the other, to leave her half undressed in front of him.

Solas looked up at her expectantly, and she realized that she had fallen silent.

“Is…is this helping?” she asked.

A crease appeared in the corner of his eyes, and a small smirk twisted his lips. Solas raked the tips of his fingers in a slow, arcing path from her knee and up her outer thigh, and his hand left a contradictory mix of gooseflesh and heat in its wake.

His gaze dropped back to her bare skin. A faraway look had overtaken him.

“You have been more helpful than I ever could imagine, Champion,” he said.

“No,” she said suddenly. While he had undressed her and while she spoke, she had been stroking his cheek and neck with gentle fingers. But now she took him boldly by the chin and lifted his face, twisted it, to meet her eye. “No double-speak, _harellan_. This isn’t about me and the People. This is about me and you, here, right now.”

That pale, distant smirk grew bitter and dark. Ixchel wanted to tear that twisted expression off of his face; it hurt her to look at for too long, as though he were trying to smile while he was being gutted.

He whetted his lips again, and for a moment she worried that he might withdraw, obfuscate more. Instead, he tilted his head further to look her in the eye. “Please,” he murmured, “tell me your stories of hope. I need the sound of your voice.”

And the swell of emotion in his voice, the slightest tremor she heard, tugged viciously at her heart. For a moment, despite his plea, she was left overwhelmed and speechless. It had been a while since she so desperately wished to meld with him, but the need swelled within her chest and there was nothing she could do but bend toward him and kiss Solas as searingly as she could. With open mouth she offered him everything she had, lavished him with all the attention she could give. She kissed him until his fingers dug into her thighs like she were his only anchor. When she had kissed him breathless, she leaned away and closed her eyes and breathed for herself.

And she continued with her story of hope. For that was what it was—the feeling that coiled in her gut, that slowly unfurled and blossomed and burned within her. It was not _only_ the heat left on her skin as his nose now traced patterns on her hip. It was not _only_ that his hands had strayed northward to scratch lightly at her back and ghost across the hardening peak of each breast. As he knelt at her feet and worshiped every inch of skin he could reach, she relived the tense moments from her day and the culmination of so much anticipation breaking in more or less the best ways she could imagine.

He had worked her smalls off sometime as she spoke, and around that time he had begun to kiss her stomach, her hips, her thighs, and it was driving her mad. By the time she finished telling him about Fiona, every hot breath against her skin sent ripples of desire into the deepest and furthest parts of her. He seemed to realize that her anticipation had crested and her story had ended, for he finally spread her with his fingers and gave her a flickering lick.

A sound immediately burst from her, short and breathless; her desire had been something distant, like a roll of thunder, and that one obscene touch was as startling and sudden as a lightning bolt. She had expected its arrival, yet the intensity of the need that came alive in each and every one of her limbs was beyond anything she had been prepared for.

The man between her legs released a strained chuckle as her legs quaked, and he leaned away. Solas tugged at her hands as he went and intimated she should come down to the ground. Her chest fluttered already from her scattered breath. When she tried to rock back on her heels to either sit or lay back, he instead tugged her roughly forward, into his arms. She was left dizzied and starved for air, starved for him.

Solas kissed her wantonly and dragged her closer to his lap. The heat that filled her was as otherworldly as the atmosphere around them, and she reveled in it all. Petals still fell around them, slid beneath her knees as she straddled him; a heavenly scent filled the air, and because it was unfamiliar to her it must have been summoned by Solas’s influence in her dreamscape.

That was not all that had been summoned to this domain of theirs. As she surfaced from the kiss, she saw new movement at the edge of her vision—a few wispy infiltrators flitted through the wings of the garden, summoned by the mounting ardor in her and in him.

Before she could comment on their audience, Solas sought her returned attention as his hand appeared, lightly, just a touch, at the base of her throat. Even so, her breath caught as surely as if he had a stranglehold on her. She resumed kissing him, perhaps to steal her breath back from him.

“Please,” he groaned into her needy mouth. “Let me hear you this time, _arasha_.”

 _I am real_ , she thought to say again—this time as a riotous cry—but instead she groaned, loud and wordless.

He curled his fingers around her mound and swept one digit between the wet folds. Solas’s breath escaped him in a sharp gasp. “Yes,” he hissed in pleasure and dark satisfaction

She rocked her hips to draw closer to his fingers, to seek a fullness that she was already ready for. Ixchel half expected him to mock her impatience, but he said nothing more. Instead, his grip on her throat tightened a little in a warning for her to still.

Ixchel did her best to comply, for it was his desire she wanted to fill here and now. She assessed him through her lashes, thinking she might find the same mischievous stare he had often given her when he was about to torture her, deny her release until there thought she might _die_ for the need. And she loved it, loved the slow torture just as much as she loved the consuming ferocity he could also show.

She found neither now as he held her gaze and stroked his fingers through her dripping heat.

Ixchel hooked one arm around his lean shoulders to steady herself and rested her other hand, with the Anchor, against his chest. Here in the Fade she could feel the magic in her hand respond so readily to the magic in him, and apparently so could he—for the swift flicks he gave her clit were now set to the pace of the Anchor’s pulse and his heartbeat beneath it.

She let her head fall back. “Solas,” she moaned for him, and his fingers pressed more firmly where she needed them—

She caught on quickly.

“Solas,” she said again, joy creeping into her voice.

“Tell me,” he whispered, and though her gaze had slipped away from his she could still _feel_ the intensity of his stare upon her as her throat worked to find words for what he wanted.

No. Words that _she_ wanted.

It was harder that way—to find both courage and language to speak her desires to him. It was more revealing, less of a performance, than anticipating what he wanted—but what were they except revealed, raw, bare to one another? What else did she want to be, to do, except meet every one of his and her desires together? It was not so wrong that she should speak of them to him now.

He had asked, after all.

Solas’s finger circled her clit more slowly, perhaps because her thighs had begun to tremble in her silence. She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on his shoulders. “I want you to make me come with your fingers,” she tried to say, but it came out in a quivering rush. Her voice was too high—it wasn’t a demand, it was a question—she wasn’t good at this, not like he was—

And he was _so good._

 _“Ha’mi’in,”_ he soothed. “ _Lasa em tua rosas’da’din.”_

He released her throat and supported her now between her shoulder blades as he sank his fingers into her and settled his thumb against her clit with just the perfect pressure, the right rhythm. His hot, slick mouth found her scarred collar and she sighed. When he moved to lavish her scarred chest with his tongue, he spread his fingers within her heat to fill her--then he curled his fingers back, and she arched toward him with a sharper cry on her lips.

“Like that,” she said, words tumbling from her mouth in the beginning of a refrain. “Y-you know me so well. Like no one else. Before, or forever— _ahh—”_

Somehow, speaking the words aloud multiplied the sentiment behind them, and she tightened her knees around him as something close to a climax swept through her. He did not pull her back away from the edge as he had in the past. Instead, his teeth found the swell of her breast and he quickened the pace of his thumb and sent her flying.

A guttural cry tore from her throat as she rode his hand through her orgasm, and he _groaned_ against her chest. He fucked her with his fingers with a fervor that matched her passion—nearly vicious with it. And still it wasn’t enough.

Ixchel tore herself from the throes and ducked her head to interrupt his devious lips with a kiss. Her teeth raked against his mouth in her hurry, but then his lips parted for her and he accepted the onslaught of her twining tongue. The desperate way he clung to her, continued to impale her, let her kiss him, was intoxicating in its own right.

“Fuck me,” she pleaded, hardly breaking away to speak. “Fuck me! Solas—”

She tensed again as another quake erupted in her belly and shattered across her skin.

The hand that had been supporting her back now tangled in her hair, and he pulled back her head to expose her throat and pull her back—and she fell, and he followed, in a coordinated crash that left her utterly breathless. His fingers had left her, but he had given her his teeth on her sensitive throat instead, and the electricity within her had never stopped coursing through her limbs. She dug her nails into his back and cried out as his tongue swept across a sensitive swathe of skin—

And she had no idea when or what or how it happened that he was naked against her, but he was. With her fingers she drank in every glorious inch of his broad shoulders and found the length of his arms—

“Patience,” he breathed in her ear.

She jerked, suddenly furious. But the command was not the beginning of denial, not part of a game. He slid down the length of her body in one lithe motion until his breath burned against the slick between her legs—

“Hnnngh—” The keening sound became a wail as he dove in to her heat and suckled at her swollen pearl without any teasing. Spots broke across her vision, or maybe it was the dream falling apart around her as Spirits crowded in, but she found she had no space in her mind to think of anything except the _sensation_ exploding within her. He feasted on her with abandon, and with the scalding heat of his mouth he burned away any of her remaining inhibitions. With deep, consuming kisses, he devoured the thick arousal he had stirred up within her; his deft tongue tasted every fold of her sex and laid trails of devotion back and forth across her clit.

Ixchel’s fingers tore into the earth beneath them as her back arched up. “Now,” she begged, “I need you—”

“Be specific,” he said harshly, but he was already rising up onto all fours above her.

Her lips parted as she drank in the sight of him. Solas was flushed and winded; he gulped down greedy breaths through his beautiful mouth, which was slick and wet with her cum. With one hand, he stroked his hard length over her. Her stare lingered there, and his movements slowed as she watched, until the one arm that held him up began to tremble and she remembered what he was waiting for.

She had to swallow again, for she had begun to salivate as she watched him, and this time she found the words but did not have the courage to meet his eye. “I need you inside me,” she said, and she let her head fell back to the sky. She closed her eyes and gasped. “I need you to fuck me—fuck me into the _ground,_ Solas—”

Solas pushed the length of his cock through her folds to coat himself in hot slick desire, and she felt him throb. They cried out together at the feeling, even though he had not yet entered her. She loved that sound—the terrible want in him that she knew she was about to sate.

Something in Ixchel snapped when he finally sheathed himself in her. She was pulled taught, and everything felt sharp and glassy and clear and powerful, and she raised her knees to meet him with a strength that she thought had left her.

“Yes!” she cried.

“Yes,” he agreed triumphantly. He laid a hand against her throat again and squeezed a little at the very same moment that he bottomed out against her. Her inner muscles seized immediately, and he laughed raucously above her at her eager responses. She tugged at his neck and traded that laughter for a desperate growl that rose in her own throat.

Solas set a slow, smoldering pace between her legs that did not lack for intensity. She keened into his mouth at the delicious shock of every thrust, and for a while, she lost herself to the dizzying sensations that pushed her closer and closer to a beautiful oblivion. But when he broke away to bury his face in her shoulder, she dragged his head back up with a tight grip on his neck so she could look him right in the eye.

They were wide at her boldness.

“Show me I’m yours,” she said through her teeth. “Don’t hold back. Make it hurt.”

“Ixchel,” he groaned, and he doubled over again. His arms curled around her head to brace himself as he drove his cock deeper and deeper with every thrust. She clumsily tried to cant her hips up to meet his quick motions—and in doing so, she found an angle that meant that she felt every impact from her toes to the roots of her hair. She tightened her grip on his neck just to hold on, and he dug his teeth in the muscle between her neck and shoulder, and she screamed his name as she came undone.

“Yes— _yesyes!_ —Solas—”

He didn’t stop. Instead, his pace grew more frantic, and he straightened up a little to change the angle and chase those terrible, beautiful impacts that she _knew_ she would feel, even upon leaving the Fade.

Solas dragged shaking fingers across her face as he fucked her. He traced her lips with his long, elegant fingers, and she parted them on instinct. He shook with need, and he could not seem to tear his eyes away as she took his fingers into her mouth. She swirled her tongue between the long, elegant digits and sucked until another delicious sound welled up in him:

" _Mine_.”

When Solas finally reached the height of his own release, it was with a snarl that matched her own in its savagery. She sought his lips with her own and kissed him like a drowning woman as he spilled within her. With slow rocks of her hips, she carried him down from his climax and enveloped him in her gratitude

They lay there together, chests heaving with exertion, as something pulled taught in the Fade around them. He buried his face in her hair, breath rough in her ear. But he did not speak.

She wrapped her arms around him and splayed her fingers across his back to comfort him. As always, she was uncertain as to the full complexity of whatever feeling had seized him. But she was certain of her own.

_“Ar lath ma, vhenan."_


	98. Chapter 125 Excerpts **

Solas’s labored breaths hitched in his chest at her words—and then she felt his magic flare all around her, _within_ her, and it scoured her with all of his attention and intent. It was like a bucket of ice water had been splashed across her in an instant. She tensed immediately, lungs seized and incapable of breath as the power seeped through her skin and into her core. Then, as abruptly as she had sensed it, he withdrew both his awareness from her consciousness and his cock from her still-throbbing heat and sat up.

She swallowed hard and shivered at the sudden emptiness. Somehow, their decoupling had ignited all the rapturous soreness left by their tryst.

Ixchel looked up at Solas, framed as he was against the flowering trees, only to shudder more deliciously. The raw power of the Fade radiated from his eyes and in his every heavy breath. His eyes _blazed_ with a heat and potency she knew he held within him but she so rarely saw surface.

Her bare skin erupted into gooseflesh under the gaze of this god; she was keenly aware of how bare and open she was, in every regard, spread on the ground beneath him. But Ixchel had never felt herself a halla, had never felt him the wolf.

She raised the hand that held the Anchor and laid it gently upon his arm.

“Truly?” he breathed.

Even in the moment she shaped _vhenan_ on her lips, she hadn’t been certain if the word would hurt, or even _how_. To dare call him _vhenan_ felt as though she were peeling back a bandage to peer at a wound beneath—would she rip off a delicate scab and aggravate the wound anew? Or would she find something glossy and healed?

But it was not fear that held her breath caught in her throat. The pain in her chest was not salt on a wound. Instead, she was run through with the _joy_ of this moment.

She could not contain the giddy smile that wanted to erupt across her face. It blossomed, bright and almost painfully wide, as she smoothed her hand down the length of his forearm and laced her fingers with his own. “Yes,” she said. “I… I can’t find that anger in me, anymore. Things are working. Things are _new_. And…it’s simply _true, ‘ma vhenan.”_

But a sudden realization nearly stole the smile from her lips. She was not the only one who might now associate the endearment with something dark and dead.

Ixchel’s brow creased with concern. “If…if that is alright for you. Unless there is something else—”

Solas’s grip on her hand tightened, and she cut herself off.

“You may call me anything in any language you wish to,” he growled, and he hauled her upward with a pull on her hand and an arm around her waist—and then she was in his lap again, and his lips were crushed to hers once more.

The sound she made as he kissed her was utterly unabashed in its wantonness.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he groaned against her mouth.

Ixchel wrapped her arms around his shoulders and stroked the soft, warm skin at the back of his neck as he kissed her. The deep, ardent kiss gentled some then, but it did not lose its heat.

She sipped at his lips with shallow, smiling kisses. “I will return soon. …Though it will be with an entourage.”

Solas huffed discontentedly as he pulled away to rest his forehead against hers, and he fixed her with a dark look.

“All I want is to lay my waking eyes upon you again.” His voice held a lilting, husky intonation—his words, a prayer. “This world is not enough without you.”

For a moment, she had been filled with simultaneous wonder and fear at the _belief_ in his words; the pressure to live up to their shared mission, to be the Brave Guide on their path ahead, to keep him off the _din'an'shiral,_ could crush her. He had walked among gods before, after all, and seen them fall.

And yet he believed in her. Ixchel felt the icy prickles of dread melt beneath the heat of his gaze; sometimes, when he turned those intent, silver eyes upon her, she felt that he saw her more completely than even she understood. And still, he believed. Still, he saw his heart in her.

“You are no dream. No Spirit…” He brushed her hair behind one of her ears, then trailed his long fingers around the shell of it. “I have spent much time in the Fade with Justice and Anders, and…surfacing, alone…” His breath was hot on her face. “It is too much like when I woke a year ago and thought myself to be in a waking nightmare.”

She cuddled closer so that her breasts pressed against his chest—so close, perhaps their hearts might beat as one. Their noses brushed across each other’s cheeks.

“But I could not have dreamed you up, even if I tried.”

“I’m real,” she promised in a whisper. _“‘Ma sal’shiral…’ma vhenan…_ Next time I suggest we part ways…don’t let me go.”

Solas’s lips curled into a wicked grin. “Those exact words? Is that your wish?”

“It is,” she said. “It’s not worth being away. Efficiency? Who cares? There’s no reason I cannot save the world with you at my side…”

He laughed, and it seemed that perhaps he had finally shaken off the weight of worlds that haunted him. He tipped forward to kiss her again, and she was happy to accept—

Except—

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” she said after a moment. His expression was so quickly overcome with hurt and uncertainty that she reclaimed an arm from him and reached for his face, to literally smooth his brow. She made sure to inject an overly seductive tone into her voice as she tried to reassure him she was not inherently uncomfortable with _Fade sex_ : “How will the both of us feel, to wake alone, after a night like ours?”

Solas’s concern melted away again, and he chuckled.

“It would not be the first time I have acted rashly in my long life,” he said dryly. His chuckle became a snicker, which he swallowed—but he could not hide his devilish smirk. He tried, anyway, as he bent and nuzzled his cheek against her own. “The pleasure I have taken from you tonight will have left evidence,” he whispered in her ear.

She jerked as arousal pooled instantly in her gut again, and then she gasped, for his teeth had found the sensitive lobe of her ear.

“You will think of me as you touch yourself in the bath… Won’t you, ‘ _ma’haurasha?”_

An airy laugh escaped her. “Alright.”

 _“Silal or ma tu ara’len’palan,”_ he breathed. “I’ll miss you. But we will be together in that way.”

“I _love_ you, Solas,” she replied, shifting in his lap to straddle him again. He was hard again, and her cheeks burned to think it was at the thought of her—hands between her thighs, sinking below the steaming water of a bath. “But please do something about the voyeurs.”

Solas’s chest shuddered with barely-contained laughter. He reached between them to stroke himself idly, and with every motion his knuckles brushed against her core. She was mostly sated, but still even the most accidental of touches made her _yearn_. “They cannot harm you,” he assured her. “But I can do little to keep them _away_. This is their domain.”

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, and his smirk widened. With his free hand, he pushed her face to look out at one wing of Skyhold’s garden. There were no Demons she recognized—not even a single lustful Desire Demon disguised as beautiful humans—nothing but wisps. They observed, and were observed, but they did not reflect the…moments…in any way Ixchel might have expected. Perhaps there was something sensuous about the way they undulated and wound around one another, but otherwise, there was only a general sense of _intelligence_ in the gathered crowd of amorphous Spirits.

Which was enough to make her feel watched by them.

They watched as Solas ran his fingers through her folds again to test her slick.

They watched as Solas nipped at the taught chord of her turned neck.

They watched as Solas pulled her down by her hips and filled her tight heat with his cock.

Ixchel gave a long, low grown at the stretch of him inside her, and she ground down lower in his lap. He exhaled heavily across her cheek and reached up to brush her hair away from her shoulders. “You are so accommodating,” he said appreciatively.

“Trusting,” she corrected warmly. She looked back at him out of the corner of her eye. “Not just of myself, either.”

He chuckled and gathered her face up in his hands so that he could kiss her. “As is only right, _rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

Ixchel twisted her hips a little in response to his achingly gentle kiss, and she ran her hands up the long, lean sides of him. “Lay down,” she said softly.

He barely pulled out of her as he rearranged their legs and settled down on his back, with her straddling him. She leaned forward to curtain him with her hair and kiss him again, and he raised his knees to make sure he never left her empty. She moaned into his mouth and braced herself with her hands on his chest.

“This is not their domain,” she said in a low voice. She bowed her head and pressed a kiss to the pulse in his throat. “It is yours, vhenan. As am I.”

-:-:-:-:-

Solas was right.

Though her bed was as empty as it had been all night, her body was less understanding of the divide between dreams and waking. She was immediately aware of the slippery fluid at the apex of her thighs, and the insistent throb of her pulse—and the desperately unsatiated need to be filled. She groaned as she sat up, but the noise faded into a hiss. Every limb felt overwhelmingly _used_ , as though she had been thrashing all night long.

She did not even wait to go to the bath and instead dipped her fingers disbelievingly through her folds, only to find herself still wanting. Ixchel came quickly to her own hand, then again in the bath when thoughts of Solas became too heady to ignore.

Every movement through the rest of her day was a reminder of her night spent in the Fade. She found her mind wandering there at the most inopportune times, and she was almost glad that she was still meant to be practicing her wards every other night that she remained in Skyhold. Another day so distracted might be disastrous. For while she had the time that day to dally—with the herbalists, with Dagna, with Sutherland and crew newly arrived from the west—there were many other matters that required her utmost concentration.

Speaking with Varric before he left was not one of them, however.


	99. Chapter 129 and Chapter 130 Excerpts

Perhaps it was the pride that summoned Solas, for that was when he arrived in her dream. It perplexed Ixchel that he might come up the _stairs_ in her imagined quarters, as opposed to simply appearing in their company, or even on the balcony. But as she turned to face him, she saw the humor in his eye.

A coy smile adorned his face as he took in the sight of them—a Magister, a Spirit of Wisdom, and whatever Ixchel was—sitting together in the Fade, surrounded by conjured trinkets and music and sources of other sensations like the food and drink and fur and steel that Ixchel had conjured in her demonstrations. Ixchel recognized a certain _hahren_ quality to the way Solas looked at them, as though he were a teacher come back to find his students in the middle of some unsanctioned prank. Ixchel couldn’t help how she immediately froze up under that gaze, and all her pride was replaced with a gentle sheepishness at being caught.

Dorian, ever the rebel, was completely unperturbed. If anything, the swiftness with which he stood and pointed an accusatory finger at Solas implied that perhaps _this_ was what he had actually been waiting for all night long.

"I cannot _believe_ you have been keeping this from us, my friend!" he cried. "She is a marvel!"

Ixchel flushed and sank slowly down in her seat.

"Indeed," Solas said, and his smile widened into a lop-sided, teeth-baring smirk. "That is rather why I would like to keep her all to myself."

Dorian didn't miss a beat. "Good on you, my friend!" he said cheerfully. "Well, Wisdom. It's been a pleasure. Thank you for your insights. I am certain I will cross paths with you again soon. On nydha, my dears!"

He bowed sweepingly, then vanished from the dream.

Ixchel glanced back at the Spirit to confirm that it had remained. She knew how Solas valued it dearly as a friend, but Ixchel got the sense that the Spirit would stay more for _her_ own sake than for Solas’s company.

Solas was dressed in all black, but not the same black she had so often seen Fen’Harel wear. This was a far simpler outfit than the gilded darkness that shrouded Fen'Harel. It was simply clean, and neat: Solas, still. But it was in the canny gleam in his eye, the edge to his smile, that she felt the wolf lurking.

She swallowed.

“I have a lot to tell you,” she said, “but I need to ask you something, Solas.”

His face remained so carefully neutral that she _immediately_ knew that he held more secrets than she could imagine, and he was trying to figure out which one had gotten him in trouble this time. It would have been amusing if it didn’t itch at the most suspicious and bitter and scarred parts of her. But Wisdom was still nearby, and with Wisdom, that irrational part of her heart calmed and quieted as soon as it tried to rear its ugly head.

Ixchel rested the hand that held the Anchor on the back of the chaise and looked up at Solas. He had not drawn any further into the room. They regarded each other in silence for a moment longer, and she was grateful for the chance to try and organize her thoughts; that was what she had hoped to do, before Dorian had distracted her. After all—there were _so many_ important things she had to tell him, in addition to these questions that she wanted answers to.

“Briala tells me that there are elves putting flowers in their hair and calling for _mien’harel_ in alienages across Orlais—saying that they have the Dread Wolf’s blessing.” Ixchel tilted her chin and fixed him with a pointed look. “Your doing?”

Solas was silent for a moment too long.

Ixchel’s heart seized.

“Not actively,” Solas said, very slowly.

Wisdom drew closer. “Go on,” it urged.

His silver eyes flicked to the Spirit, then back to Ixchel. He had clasped his hands behind his back once again, at once both contrite and defiant.

“They are independent cells, organized by their own values. They have not been given a higher purpose except this: to protect their own.” He paused, then inclined his head as though to physically tear his gaze away from her own. “What they know of the time Before is little more than any of my followers have ever known. They are simply Proud elves. They have Dignity. They should be treated accordingly—and they will demand that as their right, by whatever mean they feel necessary.”

“Okay,” Ixchel said.

Solas blinked down at the ground, and now her heart ached for an entirely different reason. He was so quick to presume her suspicion would rule. He was so certain of his guilt that he was, just as she so often was, waiting for a blow to land that would break him.

And she never, ever wanted to fulfill that dread expectation of his.

She clenched her fist, then forced herself to relax; she did not know if she would _ever_ stop being so surprised when he decided to be so honest with her. Pleasantly surprised, but still—it took her a moment to untense, uncoil, unwind the parts of her that had anticipated a lie or a defensive strike.

It did not take Wisdom to tell her that this time away was testing their fledgling trust. Much longer, and she worried about how Despair might take hold of the both of them.

Ixchel sighed. “Solas, how would I find fault in any that?” she asked gently.

Of course, he had a reply on the tip of his tongue. “In the lack of awareness alone—it would be enough that I did not think to tell you. You have plenty of reasons to be suspicious, and I—.”

“Reason has nothing to do with it,” Wisdom whispered.

Solas’s ear twitched. Ixchel offered him a small smile. “A year and a day, _vhenan_ ,” she said, extending her hand for him. His magic in her palm sparkled enticingly, but she did not attempt to impose her will upon him. Not that she could hope to (though she suspected if she tried, he might go along with her whims simply to humor her).

But she waited as he contemplated her hand, and the mark he had inadvertently left upon it.

Finally, Solas slunk toward her like a scolded hound and knelt behind the chaise, so that he could rest his cheek on her proffered hand.

“I have been aware of some of this…revolutionary spirit,” he admitted, “though, among all the other matters that have concerned me of late, it was not one I paid particular attention to. I did not think you would wish for me to put a cease to it.”

“That’s correct,” she said. His ear twitched against her fingers, and the muscles of his face relaxed a little. She leaned closer so she could both cup his cheek in her left hand, and trace the sharp lines of his face with her other hand. “I told Briala that I knew my image would be used, but I could only hope that it would be for something such as this. She says that no progress has been made for any of the alienages in Orlais, and likely none of them across Thedas, since what happened in Halamshiral. I can’t fix the world by myself, and neither can you, Fen’Harel. So let them craft _felgaral dir’vhen’an_ of their own. Let them each be champions of the People, with your blessing and mine.”

-:-:-:-:-

His eyes drifted closed as she skimmed her fingertips along his brow. A warm, heavy breath escaped him. “’ _Ma’av’in… ‘Ma’sal’shiral,_ ” he murmured. “What else have you to tell me? Dorian seemed to be in fine spirits.”

“Finally,” Ixchel agreed. “Wisdom helped. But there’s…a lot, Solas.”

Solas’s eyes remained closed as she spoke to him of the news from Wycome, and her plan, and Briala’s visit. His brow creased a little, but he nodded thoughtfully when she finished.

“If… If you have people there,” she began to ask, but she faltered before she could actually make her request.

Her goals were for all the people of the alienage—especially if there was to be a repeat performance from Halamshiral. For as much as she felt that Solas’s goals now aligned with hers, her understanding remained that his agents were elves, fighting for elves…and she did not know if this was a request she could make of them. On top of that concern, Ixchel’s skin crawled just at the thought of introducing even more of political nature into their romantic relationship.

But then again, for as much as they were friends and lovers and mutual moral supports, he was the Dread Wolf, and she was Rogasha’ghi’lan. She loved him not just despite his role as such--but because of it, too. And he, in turn, had named her _his_ Champion.

Before she could muster the courage to voice her request, Solas turned his face into her touch and pressed a kiss to her torn palm.

 _“Ma’av’in,_ ” he murmured. “You are my mouth, my heart. Do not doubt...these are _our_ people. I will not leave them to this fate.”

Her heart flip-flopped in her chest at the gentle conviction in his voice, and she was drawn inexorably to him by the thousands of invisible threads that seemed to connect her existence to his own. He apparently felt the same pull, for he leaned up on his knees to reach for her over the back of the chaise. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed their foreheads together. His breath was hot on her face—the purest Fade, heady with power. She breathed deeply of him and found herself immediately intoxicated by this rebel god who she had found as her lover, and her ally.

“If…if there’s something, anything I can do to help you, Solas, you know you need only ask,” she said. “Our paths…we walk them together.”

“Thank you, _arasha_ ,” he murmured. He smiled softly and tangled his fingers in the end of her hair. “And thank you, Wisdom.”

Wisdom settled around both of them like a blanket. “ _Ara melava son’ganem,_ ” it impressed upon them both. “Now tell us, _Rajelan_ , of your efforts with Compassion and those in your care. And show _Rogasha’ghi’lan_ where she may find you in the world that wakes, so you may be reunited soon.”


End file.
